


Fear, Itself

by beetle



Category: Doom (2005), Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Culture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, John Grimm is Leonard McCoy, M/M, Sulu is a BAMF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:46:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The crew gets more than they bargained for on Leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue and Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-Star Trek AOS film by three years and post-Doom by two centuries. Spoilers for both films. Violence.

**Prologue**

**_Acting Captain's Log, stardate blah-blah-blah, who gives a steaming shit . . . most of the bridge is on Leave on V'Plenniak 5 while we lucky few are stuck on Enterprise . . . which is totally not fair, if you ask me. In fact, it's cruel and unusual punishment, and yours truly is suffering mightily, but bearing up under it like any good captain would. . . ._**  
  
  
Sulu sighs, and drapes one leg over the arm of the captain's chair. "Erase latest entry and close Log," he mutters, and the computer beeps compliance. "Damnit, I can't believe all the senior bridge crew is down there except for us."  
  
  
"Not this old song, again," Uhura says, laughing. It's not often that she does, and it still tends to surprise Sulu. The only thing weirder would be hearing  _Spock_  laugh.  
  
  
 _Let's not even go there,_  he thinks, shuddering, and fiddling with the buttons near his knee. They adjust the chair to a position that's almost a complete recline and Sulu sighs again, this time in relief. Kirk's presets are brutal on his spine, not to mention a bit too high off the ground. "Betcha I could make this baby spin like a top."  
  
  
"It's like you're five," Hannity mutters from her station near Uhura, and Sulu reclines the captains chair, till he can see an upside-down view of fiery red hair and blue uniform. She's quite possibly the sexiest woman Sulu's ever seen. Even upside-down.  
  
  
"That's Acting Captain Five-Year-Old,  _sir_ , to you, matey. Arr!"  
  
  
"Actually, it's like he's three. I never thought I'd miss Kirk so much. And he's only been gone two hours." Uhura laughs again.  
  
  
"Which brings us back around to the unfairness of being stuck up here while they live it up on V'Plenniak 5," Sulu grumbles, getting up to pace over to his own station, then Pavel's. Surprisingly, they're still holding orbit with the planet. Haven't crashed and burned even once. Fantastic. Sulu feels so justified at being made acting captain, as opposed to being dirtside with his best friend.  
  
  
"Will you quit moping, captain? We'll get our turn tomorrow," Hannity says exasperatedly. "And quit pacing, you're making me nervous."  
  
  
"By tomorrow, all the fun'll be gone. And I'll be down there, bored, sans wingman, left to my own—"  
  
  
"I'm getting a hailing frequency from the planet. Maybe  _that_ 's your wingman," Uhura cuts him off to say, laughter still bright in her voice. "Probably just—"  
  
  
"There're clowns down here . . . dozens of clowns," comes from Uhura's station, and she frowns, punching something into her keypad and adjusting her listening device. The voice comes in louder: "I can hear them  _laughing_."  
  
  
The voice is so whispery, so near tears, it's impossible to tell who it is, or even what sex they are. Sulu, Hannity, and Uhura all share a glance and roll their eyes. There's only one person the three of them know who'd send a "distress call" like that.  
  
  
"Sure, there are. Thousands and millions of clowns." Sulu gestures for Uhura to open the channel. "Bridge to crew member, I didn't copy that, please repeat."  
  
  
"Damnit, there are  _clowns_  down here! They . . . they might have knives. Clowns with knives. Oh . . . oh, God. They'll kill us all," the voice says, and it really doesn't sound like Kirk's, come to think of it. In fact, it sounds more like Lieutenant Yerkes, only Sulu's never heard Xena: Warrior Yerkes sound afraid of  _anything_. So it can't be  _her_. . . .  
  
  
"Who is this?" he demands, thinking that if this  _is_  a practical joke, it's not remotely funny. But he's all of a sudden got a very not good feeling.  
  
  
"Sulu? Oh, thank God!" That tone in her voice sends chills down his spine. "I don't know where they all came from, or why they're so  _fast_. . . ." Yerkes is actually squeaking now. "My God, I can still hear them following us! Daimler's got his phaser on stun, but that's not enough. That's not—" there's a blood-curdling scream and the sound of phaser fire.  
  
  
Then the channel closes.  
  
  
For a few moments, no one knows what to say. Then Hannity clears her throat. "Uh . . . that was just a joke, right?"  
  
  
Just then, the ship gets hailed again.  
  
  
This time, it's not Yerkes, it's Ensign Tagawa. And it's not clowns chasing him, but mutated Tarkalean razor-boars. Tagawa sounds like he's about to wet himself.  
  
  
Suddenly Uhura's station lights up with half a dozen other hails.  
  
  
And that's just the beginning.

**Chapter 1**

Spock jogs deeper into the oldest part of the city, on the Captain's trail.  
  
  
He has no way of knowing for sure which way the Captain ran, but his . . . instinct . . . tells him which turns to take and which to pass by. He slips through crowds of curious V'Plenniak, most with brightly dyed fur and tails, and the gaudy gold jewelry they seem to favor. But eventually, with some distance from the city center, the crowds thin and he finds himself in the suspiciously empty Old Warehouse District.  
  
  
The V'Plenniak ambassador had discouraged the crew from leaving the city-proper for the out-lying suburbs or the Southern Sector, of which the Old Warehouse District was the largest part. It's one of the few places on V'Plenniak 5 that are a haven of civil unrest, home to crime, gangs, corruption, and, as the Captain calls them, 'Luddites.'  
  
  
Spock is, above all else, a realist. To those inclined to live outside the law, even among the largely upright V'Plenniak, a high ranking Starfleet officer would be too tempting a target to pass up. The Captain, all unwitting, is probably running straight into the ungentle arms of kidnappers.  
  
  
Worry and fear bubble up within Spock, too powerful to control. Not fear of the V'Plenniak, who nearly match Vulcans for physical strength, despite their modest stature (any two of them would be more than enough to overwhelm Spock). He fears only for the Captain who, in the middle of a discussion about the wares of a surly rug dealer, had suddenly looked as if he thought his life might be in danger and run off.  
  
  
At first, thinking the Captain's actions were part of some obscure Human prank, Spock had refused to play along. But as minutes passed without the Captain's return, he began to grow . . . concerned.  
  
  
The Captain's trail had been easy enough to follow using this logic: there was an easy-to-follow trail of surprised and amused V'Plenniak talking about the  _H'ooman_  bolting through their midst. Spock had supposed, with a dry sort of a amusement that briefly cut through his concern, that they'd soon enough be saying the same about him.  
  
  
It wasn't until the environs of shops and townhouses grew more shabby and less populated, then turned into factories in various states of (dis)repair, that Spock remembered what the ambassador had warned about this Sector, and just what could happen to an unchaperoned, trouble-prone captain in an alien city. Especially in an unreasoning state of panic such as the one the Captain had exhibited.  
  
  
Why the Captain should become so suddenly . . .  _frightened_ , and seemingly of Spock, is baffling. But the fear he'd seen in the Captain's eyes, in retrospect, was so unfamiliar, so incongruous, that it could be nothing but sincere. The Captain, for whatever reason, was mortally afraid of Spock. Why such a thing should be—and Spock has his suspicions about what's responsible for that fear, oh, yes—will have to wait until he can get the Captain back to safety. Preferably aboard the Enterprise, and under the care of Dr. McCoy.  
  
  
There's a sudden shout, not too distant, but farther away than Spock prefers, since he's certain that the shout is none other than the Captain's.  
  
  
Unable to prevent it, Spock experiences a surge of random rage that burns reason from his brain like sun burns off morning fog. It intensifies until his very vision is tinged slightly green.  
  
  
He  _will not_  let his captain be harmed by these . . . giant, rainbow-colored lemurs, as the Captain tends to describe them. He will not let them so much as  _touch_  his Captain.  
  
  
More turns that are as random as the Captain can be, and Spock  _knows_  he's on the right trail, because he can practically smell a mixture of sweat, fear, and sandalwood. The Captain should never smell of fear, and these V'Plenniak are responsible, Spock is certain of it—and that spurs him on faster. He means to catch up with the Captain and find someplace both hidden and defensible. And then. . . .  
  
  
Spock is uncertain what then, only that he  _must_  find and protect the Captain— _Jim_  before it's too late.  
  
  


*

  
  
Jim runs and runs till it feels like his lungs are about to explode.  
  
  
Then he runs some more.  
  
  
He can feel the eyes of the V'Plenniak on him as he zips through the milling, brightly-colored crowds of Yranak, their capital city, uncertain of where he's running  _to_ , just that he  _has_  to run.  
  
  
From  _him_.  
  
  
He takes turns at random—being unpredictable is his specialty—until he's in a part of the city he recognizes from his own briefing as the Old Warehouse District, which is largely unused and a haven for gang-related crime. It's also a place the V'Plenniak Ambassador had warned his "new and exciting alien friends" to avoid if unchaperoned.  
  
  
James T. Kirk is most definitely unchaperoned.  
  
  
Sweating and panting, he stops at a street that branches off in two directions. One leads toward another square where he can just make out more of the multicolored crowds he'd just left behind. The other way leads deeper into the Old Warehouse District.  
  
  
 _Well, shit_ , he thinks, torn. Then he's running again, looking for a place to hide, gang members be damned. The day Jim can't defend himself against some hoodlums (hoodlums much like he used to be and hang around with) is the day he lays down and dies.  
  
  
Frankly,  _anything_  would be better than facing  _him_. Having to face the betrayal implied by that look in his eyes. . . .  
  
  
And so, Jim runs. He runs until one false step causes him to turn his ankle in a way it was never meant to go. He shouts, dropping to one knee, tearing his trousers and skinning his knee in the process. Then he kneels there, panting and shaking, until a distant burst of chittering laughter sounds. It's V'Plenniak in nature, but more darkly amused than their laughter tends to be. They are, for the most part, a brightly-colored, simple-seeming people. They tend to wear their hearts on what passes for their sleeves, and deception is relatively unheard of among them.  
  
  
But there is, Jim knows, a difference between  _relatively_  and  _completely_. So who knows how many V'Plenniak  _he_  has conspiring with him? They may be closing in on him—surrounding him even as he kneels here, favoring a silly sprained ankle. . . .  
  
  
Still, it's several minutes before he can bear to put any weight on the ankle, and when he can, he limps onward, deeper into the maze-like warren that is the Southern Sector. He can feel  _him_  out there, somewhere, getting closer, murder or mutiny on his mind. Jim is tempted to contact Enterprise, but who knows how many of the crew might be conspiring against him? Who else could be siding with  _him_?  
  
  
Sulu and Scotty wouldn't. Uhura . . . is a coin toss. She and Spock have been broken up for nearly a year, but her feelings for him and vice versa probably still run deep.  
  
  
Jim knows he could definitely count on Bones, but Bones is somewhere in Yranak—possibly being hunted himself. His unwavering loyalty to Jim may see him hurt, or worse.  
  
  
A burst of rage and hatred of  _him_ , and fear for Bones gives Jim the energy, if not the speed to limp on despite his screaming ankle. But in a continuing streak of his amazing luck thus far, another random turn puts him in an equally random cul-de-sac with a wall higher than Jim could boost himself over even without a bum ankle.  
  
  
"Shit-shit-shit," he mutters, backing up, meaning to find his way back to the branching street and to the square he passed. Not that he thinks to lose himself in the crowd, but at least he'd be able to puts some bodies between he and—  
  
  
"Captain."  
  
  
Jim whirls around, then starts backing up in the other direction. Spock advances, a sweating, disheveled mess. His face is a deepish olive-green from exertion and his eyes are very, very dark. Turbulent with some emotion Jim couldn't put a name to.  
  
  
"I know what you want, but you're not gonna get it," he tells Spock in a voice that doesn't shake even though the rest of him does. "Not even over my cold, dead body."  
  
  
Spock turns greener for a moment—even looks confused. Then his complexion and expression even out. "What I want is to get you back to the Enterprise. It is not safe for you to be here alone, Captain."  
  
  
"What—and it's safe with you?" Jim snorts, his heart racing in time with the throbbing in his ankle and the stitch in his side. "I don't think so. So you can go fuck yourself, because you're not getting Enterprise.  _Ever_. She's mine."  
  
  
Spock blinks, and the Infernal Eyebrow, as Bones calls it, raises. "Captain, neither I nor anyone else have any interest in taking the Enterprise from you. You are thinking irrationally, and I believe the reason may be—"  
  
  
"Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Spock. I've seen that look in your eyes before, that . . . possessive, take-no-prisoners look," Jim seethes as his back hits the wall. He hadn't even realized that he was still backing up. Or that Spock was still advancing. "During the Narada Incident, when your security team caught Scotty and me in the engine room, and frog-marched us to the bridge . . . I thought you were gonna  _kill_  me. Is that what you're willing to do to get the Enterprise back?"  
  
  
"Captain, I have no wish to command the Enterprise again," Spock says softly. "Nor do I wish to harm you."  
  
  
"Then why're you chasing me? If you don't want my ship, or want me dead, why the  _hell_  won't you leave me alone?" Jim demands.  
  
  
The Eyebrow, again. "Because I believe you are unwell, and it is neither in your best interest, nor in Starfleet's to let you wander around the streets of a foreign city in your state."  
  
  
"And what state would I be in, exactly?"  
  
  
"Fear. And extreme paranoia."  
  
  
Jim laughs raggedly, his hands braced on the crumbly wall behind him. He has little chance of evading Spock in a dead-end, but he means to be ready should such an unlikely possibility present itself. "Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean you're not after me. The two aren't mutually exclusive."  
  
  
Spock inclines his head, conceding the point. "But fear, Captain? After three years, do you really _fear_  me?"  
  
  
"I—" Jim frowns. "I don't trust you."  
  
  
For a moment, he could swear Spock looks . . .  _hurt_. Which doesn't jibe with what Jim's instinct has been shrilling at him since the marketplace. If Spock were as cold-blooded as he'd seemed in that eternal moment, then Jim's distrust shouldn't phase him at all. It could only be expected, in fact.  
  
  
It doesn't add up at all, but it doesn't have to. Questions and answers can wait until Jim is back on the Enterprise and Spock's in the brig.  
  
  
In the meantime, Spock steps closer still and Jim presses back against the wall, ready to dodge past and hobble out of the alley as quickly as he can. Which isn't going to net him much, seeing as he's half-lame and Spock has all that Vulcan speed and strength on his side.  
  
  
But Jim won't go down without a fight. He refuses to make it easy for the bastard.   
  
  
"I have no wish to harm you, Captain," Spock says again, his arms out as if to block Jim from darting around him, his eyes focused and intent. He's only a few feet away, now, and moving closer still. "Let me prove it to you."  
  
  
"You can't!" Jim fakes left, dodges right, and gets grabbed around the waist and slammed back against the wall for his troubles. The wind is knocked completely out of him and he coughs, groaning and about to double over so he can retch up everything he's ever eaten. But Spock is holding him upright, trying to make eye-contact.  
  
  
"Get it over with," Jim pants outs, avoiding whatever there is to be seen in Spock's eyes. "Do it and have done."  
  
  
Spock's brow creases and he seems like he's about to reply. Then he hangs his head for a moment, dark hair obscuring darker eyes.  
  
  
When he looks up at Jim again, he smiles—actually  _smiles_ , in itself a disturbing, disturbing thing—then raises his hand almost faster than Jim can process.  
  
  
And likewise, almost before Jim even has time to recognize the difference between the backhand he expects, and the butterfly-light finger-patterning on his face he gets, he's gone. Lost in the dark intensity of the meld.  
  
  


*

  
  
_H'oomans are_ , Grantha Ebdelak the de facto leader of  _V'Plenniak First_  decides,  _hideous things._  
  
  
Tall, narrow, and almost bald, pigmented in various shades of brown, and completely lacking in anything resembling a tail, they're oddness personified. The planet they evolved on, E'Arth (even their planet is oddly named) must be even odder than they are. Grantha shudders at the thought of such strangeness tainting his people.   
  
  
But whatever else these H'oomans are, they're certainly easy to round up after a dose of Kellemak 856. It'd been difficult to countenance Dr. Korvak's claims that the illegal-but-plentiful airborne spore which, when distilled, made the V'Plenniak higher than silak on its mating flight, creates quite the opposite reaction in the H'oomans. Instead of mellow euphoria, it causes hallucinations, paranoia, extreme fear, and, in strong enough doses, a psychotic break with reality.  
  
  
("Don't ask me how I know," Korva had said shiftily, her eyes everywhere but Grantha's face. "But it's even more fascinating in practice than in theory. At least until the H'ooman attempts tp kill itself."  
  
  
Grantha had grabbed the doctor by her piebald, wattled neck and hauled her close. "But that's not going to happen with  _these_  H'oomans, correct?" Korva shook her head  _no_  so fast, it seemed in danger of falling off her neck. "Good. The plan is to make an example of them by killing them publicly, not by presenting the Federation with an unexplained mass suicide.")  
  
  
Thankfully, the good doctor had managed to get the doses just right. The H'oomans' paranoia and fear made them easy to herd. Grantha's second in command Renik had intercepted three of them cowering together in an alley near the East Sector of Yranak. Grantha, himself, caught two just on the edge of the Old Warehouse District and the aptly-named Undertown. The rest of the Firsters had averaged one or two H'oomans each between them.  
  
  
Now, looking over their pitiful red, gold, and blue-clad catch, Grantha huffs. The H'oomans are all huddled together, jibbering about whatever insane dreams trouble their waking. Their murmurs, cries, and occasional screams rebound off the walls of the abandoned warehouse that is the Firster headquarters, but the bought cooperation of the local gangs has ensured that there will be no one to hear the screams, let alone investigate them.  
  
  
Everything's come together according to plan.  
  
  
At least Grantha thinks so until Ossik, Ula, and Todok come in dragging one flailing, wailing H'ooman, and one very still body.  
  
  
"Sir," Ula says in her chittering voice. Her fur is standing up, making her seem nearly twice the size she actually is. "We think this one—" she nods at the wailing H'ooman, who gets shaken roughly by Ossik. "Is their leader. This one—" a nod at the body she and Todok dragged in "—must be its mate, for the fight he put up when we tried to grab the other one."  
  
  
"Hmm." Grantha strokes his magenta chin-fur, making a mental note to mention this to Korva. Such information would make her day, and more importantly might serve the Firsters in the future. "Is it dead, Ula?"  
  
  
"No, sir. But we had to beat it unconscious to subdue it. This one's been howling like a skinned delesk ever since." Ula shrugs, her fur fluffing out even more.  
  
  
Grantha paces over to the unconscious H'ooman and looks it over: dark head-fur lays straight across a narrow brow, but doesn't cover sharply pointed ears. "This one's ears are different—"  
  
  
The wailing H'ooman tries to break free when Grantha reaches out to examine an ear. He's screaming something in silly, slippery H'ooman-tongue, his sky-colored eyes murderous with rage and frustration.  
  
  
"How quaint," Grantha sneers, deliberately poking the unconscious H'ooman's ear. It doesn't so much as twitch, but its leader-mate loses its head completely, thrashing, trying to break free. Ossik rolls his eyes and casually backhands the H'ooman. When it sags, also unconscious, he hisses laughter and drops the H'ooman to the floor like garbage.  
  
  
"Weaklings," he churrs. "And they think to impose their laws on us."  
  
  
"Not for long, they won't. Once we make an example of these ones," Todok grumbles. He's a man of few words, but when he does speak, it's always the plain truth, which Grantha respects.  
  
  
Odd aliens from an odd world, bringing oddness to V'Plenniak . . . it's not to be tolerated. Todok is indeed correct: these Humans will make a fine example.  
  
  


 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew gets more than they bargained for on Leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Set post ST:XI by three years. Spoilers for ST:XI and for Doom. Violence. Minor character death.

**From Acting Captain's Log:**  
  
 ** _. . . receiving a barrage of distress calls from crewmembers on Leave, at approximately 13:09 hours, Lieutenant Uhura and I are leading a security team down to V’Plenniak 5 to meet with Ambassador Kurak regarding the nature of these distress calls. . . ._**  
  
  
“. . . constabulary was able to establish that around the same time, several other of your crew members began behaving irrationally, some of them even running off, screaming and flailing as if they were being chased,” Uhura translates for the Ambassador, who’s ringing her smallish paws with worry. “We were able to intercept a few of them and sedate them—carefully, through the efforts of one of our most distinguished scientists, Dr. Korva—so they couldn’t harm themselves or cause themselves more distress. But we can revive them whenever you’re ready, and hopefully piece together what happened. Oh, me.”  
  
  
Sulu and Uhura share a glance, then Uhura chitters something at the Ambassador, who sighs and shakes her head, clearly embarrassed. When she replies, it’s brief and tentative, interrogatory.  
  
  
“She offers her sincerest apologies, and is willing to help us coordinate our efforts with the local peacekeepers to get the matter quickly resolved,” Uhura adds. Sulu nods and paces to the window of the Central Office. From there he can see many mutli-colored V’Plenniak rushing about their business, some pausing to stop and chat with each other, some gathered in serious groups of threes and fours. The mile-wide Central Square is a-flash with bright golden eyes and bright golden jewelry.  
  
  
There's absolutely no sign of the sixty-plus officers who’d beamed down, excited for Leave. No sign of the Captain, Spock, McCoy. . . .  
  
  
Or of Pavel.  
  
  
Sulu ignores the slight stinging behind his eyes. He’s never cried in his life, and doesn’t intend to start now. Anyway, crying isn’t going to get Pavel back. Figuring out what’s going on and putting a stop to it is the only thing that could do that. Which means adding up the few facts they have:  
  
  
Fact 1: Two hours into a seemingly routine Leave, almost every one of the crew dirtside had become very afraid of something or someone that they couldn’t have possibly run into on V’Plenniak 5, such as clowns, Tarkalean razor-boars, ghosts, crocodiles, Klingons, Napolean, etc. (Though the V’Plenniak penchant for dying their fur might have led to Yerkes thinking she was being surrounded by clowns.)  
  
  
Fact 2: This fear, which had seemingly affected everyone at approximately the same time, had damaged their reason to the point that they hared off into an unknown city with no thought for safety, or the protocol for the very situation in which they found themselves.  
  
  
Fact 3: Tracing their comm-badges had revealed most of those badges lying in piles of four and five, not far from the last places their owners had been seen or heard from.  
  
  
All of which means wherever the crewmembers are, they’re with people who know what the comm-badges are, and don’t want to be traced. And if they don’t want to be traced, that means this was a deliberate, conspiratorial act of interception and abduction.  
  
  
Which likewise means there’s a mole in the V’Plenniak government. Someone who wants to send a message to Starfleet and the Federation, and has no qualms about using dozens of innocent people to do it. . . .  
  
  
Of course, the last bit is only conjecture, but Sulu has a hunch he's right, that this . . . abduction has nothing to do with profit and everything to do with making an example and sending a warning.  
  
  
Sulu sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache. Standing around brooding and blue-skying won’t get anyone anywhere, let alone his crew back, safe and alive.  
  
  
He turns back to the room and manages a tight smile. Steps over a prismed rainbow of soft cushions and pillows, to get to the Ambassador. He nods, holding out his hands in the V’Plenniak gesture of friendship.  
  
  
The Ambassador makes a strange  _wa’ah_  sound and comes to take his hands, squeezing them tight.  
  
  
“The Ambassador is humbled by our understanding and our friendship,” Uhura murmurs. Sulu manages a genuine smile, and looks down into the Ambassador’s worried golden eyes, which study his face from a fluff of cerise-colored fur. She looks terribly small in her colorful, ornate office.  
  
  
“Please thank her for her assistance, Lieutenant, and advise her we’d appreciate any help she can offer.”  
  


 

*

  
  
“Chekov?”  
  
  
Sitting tailor-style, staring off into space, Pavel doesn’t respond to the soft, scratchy voice at his side. Nor the insistent poking of his shoulder that follows.  
  
  
“Listen, kid, ya gotta snap out of it. We’ve gotta. . . .” the voice trails off for a few moments. Then the poking and the talking resumes. “Those clowns took some of the others outside and . . . they came back without ‘em. I think they’re dead . . . Spock, Tagawa, Fine, Heller, Santiago . . . a bunch of others. All gone, now.”  
  
  
“ _Da_. Gone,” Pavel agrees, nodding, because they are. Almost everyone Pavel cares about is gone. Dead at the hands of the Romulan kidnappers. So is anyone who comes looking for them, including Hikaru. . . .  
  
  
Even the Keptin is dead. Since the Romulans dumped him unceremoniously in the midst of the remaining crewmembers, he’s not so much as twitched. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing.  
  
  
It’s all hopeless. They will die here, and no one will know what happened to them. Pavel will never get another chance to talk with his Papa or sit with his Mama. Never play soccer with Yuri and Katya again, never hear another story from his Grandmother. Never get to go drinking with Hikaru again, never find the courage to tell Dr. McCoy—  
  
  
“C’mon, kiddo, anyone home in there?”  
  
  
When Pavel finally looks over, he finds himself staring into a familiar, strong-featured face, surrounded by a fluffy afro. “Lieutenant Y-yerkes?”  
  
  
The lieutenant nods once, her brown eyes so wide the whites are showing around them. “You’re the only one who’s not freaking out or falling apart. So you’ve gotta help me.”  
  
  
“Help you do what?”  
  
  
“Help me get outta here, to get help for the others, before . . . before the clowns do worse than kidnap us,” she says, shuddering and glancing around at their captors.  
  
  
Pavel looks, too, but all he sees are Romulans. To a man, they look like Nero. Like they’ve all been cloned from the same DNA.  
  
  
“Their laughter’s driving me batshit,” the Lieutenant moans softly, clutching her head and rocking a little. “God, they’re gonna kill us all if we don’t get help.”  
  
  
Pavel looks around, confused. Thinks perhaps his command of standard is failing him, because he definitely does not see any clowns whatsoever. All he sees are crewmembers, huddled together and weeping or shaking or both. Surrounding them on the ground floor and on walkways above the dusty warehouse, are Romulans with projectile- and pulse-pistols. Pavel shakes his head sadly. “How are we going to get away from them? They are armed and many—“  
  
  
“I don’t know!” Yerkes exclaims, panting, her eyes rolling like a frightened horse. “I don’t know anything but that we  _have_  to  _get away_  from them!”  
  
  
“But how--?”  
  
  
“You’re the genius, can’t you . . . figure something out?” Yerkes grabs his hands in her own clammy ones. “Please, just—tell me what to do, and I can do it. I can be brave for long enough to get us out of here if you’ll just tell me what to—”  
  
  
Suddenly, one of the Romulans on the walkway shouts something down at one of the Romulans on the ground, and that Romulan rushes over to Pavel and Yerkes, hissing and chittering like a wild animal. He gestures with his pulse pistol for them to separate.  
  
  
“Fuck you, clown!” Yerkes grits out, jumping to her feet. Her whole body is vibrating with fear and nervous energy.  
  
  
“Lieutenant,  _sit down_!” Pavel says as firmly as he can, but it sounds more like a plea than a command. Yerkes shakes her head, staring down the Romulan, teeth bared in a silent snarl.  
  
  
“It’s stand or fall time, kid,” she replies, balling her fists and taking a step toward the Romulan, who sneers. We all-- _all_ \--“ she continues, raising her voice so that it rings off the warehouse walls. “We all have to stand up to these assholes! They can’t do this to us! We’re stronger than this—than cowering on a dirty floor waiting for them to cut our throats!”  
  
  
Pavel sneaks a glance around at his fellow officers. Some of them are starting to perk up, to stop their muttering and clutching of each other. The catatonic ones don’t seem to be moving, though. They simply stare up at the ceiling and occasionally tremor or tic.  
  
  
Another glance upward shows all the walkway guards have their weapons trained on Yerkes, as do the guards on the floor.  
  
  
“Lieutenant,” Pavel begins, tugging on the leg of her trousers. But she shakes him off. “They will _kill_  you!”  
  
  
“I’d rather die fighting than wait to get slaughtered like an animal.” She looks at down at him, resignation in her dark eyes. Then she smiles grimly, before turning back to the guard with the pistol, who barks something at her Pavel can’t understand, but he knows means  _sit down and shut up, Human_.  
  
  
Yerkes looks around her, meeting every eye that will meet hers. And there are more than a few, now, some bright with remembered courage and fearlessness.  
  
  
“We’re Starfleet officers!” she exclaims in a familiarly brassy tone. “We have to start acting like it and  _save ourselves_! Will some of us be hurt or killed? Yes. But some of us won’t. And the ones that don’t will make it out of here and back to the Enterprise. Back  _home_  . . . who wants to go home?”  
  
  
Several tentative replies are sounded, and the guard with the pistol aimed at Yerkes aims it and his attention toward the loudest of the replies; silent and quick, Yerkes rushes him, tackling him to the ground.  
  
  
They tussle for the pistol between them, to the soundtrack of brutish Romulan laughter and Human cries of distress. For a few moments, it even appears that Yerkes has the upper hand, despite the enormous strength of the Romulan. But only for a few moments. They can’t have been rolling around for more than a half minute when the pistol goes off and they both stiffen—  
  
  
Seconds later the Romulan pushes Yerkes away from him and jumps to his feet, aiming the pistol at her head and growling.  
  
  
“ _No!_ ” Pavel shouts, scrambling towards her to shield her body with his own. He crouches over her head and torso and stays that way. Even when the cold, metal tip of the Romulan’s pistol touches the back of his head.  
  
  
The Romulan mutters something and Pavel can hear the slow easing back of the trigger, can hear the click in his own throat as he swallows reflexively, his body preparing to die.  
  
  
Suddenly there’s a shout from above and after a few tense seconds, the pistol is gone, and the Romulan huffs.  
  
  
So relieved he can barely control bowel and bladder, Pavel looks down into Yerkes's wide, frightened eyes, then down at her stomach. The hole there is so big, so torn and red . . . he could catalogue her organs, were there more than strips and scraps left of them.  
  
  
“Oh, Lieutenant. . . .” he moans, and she laughs, pained and forced. Blood bubbles through her libs and around her teeth.  
  
  
“Sally,” she says, and when Pavel meets her eyes again, she actually grins, pained though it is. “Tell . . . my mom and pop . . . I'm sorry. And . . . I love them.”  
  
  
“You can tell them yourself,” Pavel whispers, about as convincingly as he’d commanded her to sit down.  
  
  
Yerkes-- _Sally_ \--grabs his hand, her eyes intent and piercing. “Promise me . . . you’ll tell them. . . .”  
  
  
Tears running down his face, Pavel nods. “I—I promise.”  
  
  
She holds his gaze for what feels like an eternity before she sighs softly and stops breathing.  
  
  
The Romulan behind Pavel snorts, and moves away. Around Pavel, the few crewmembers that’d shown signs of life go back to their weeping and shaking with renewed determination.  
  
  
But Pavel pays them no mind. He can’t take his eyes off of Yerkes’ own. He doesn’t even realize that the blood that stains Yerkes jersey a darker shade of red has spread around them in a rapidly cooling pool.  
  


 

*

  
  
When Jim comes to his entire skull aches, and he can barely sit up, his body is such a mass of pain and soreness.  
  
  
For a long while he lies there, too disoriented to understand why he should be in so much pain. But it’s the sound of soft weeping, on the background of brief screams and cries, and muttered snatches of conversation that makes him struggle over onto his side.  
  
  
As his blurry vision clears, he can make out a spreading puddle of red making its way toward his face, and he pushes himself upright slowly on shaking arms. What he sees causes him to blink, as if to clear a hallucination from his sight.  
  
  
A quick count reveals over thirty crewmembers sitting or laying on a the filthy floor of a huge, empty space, in clumps and groups. Most of them are either rocking or shaking. Some seem to be catatonic, sprawled on the floor and staring straight up, their breathing slow and erratic. Among them and above them on creaking walkways, V'Plenniak with weapons stroll back and forth.  
  
  
Not five feet away is Ensign Chekov, chafing the hand of Lieutenant Yerkes, who is also prone, but not because she’s sleeping. Indeed, she is the source of spreading red that’d caused Jim to sit up. There's a large, gruesome wound that's turned most of her torso into hamburger, and Jim can smell the copper-piss-shit stench of death so strong, he wonders if he'll ever be able to smell anything else.  
  
  
 _What the hell happened?_  "Chekov?"  
  
  
Chekov shakes his head  _no_  once, and squeezes Yerkes's hand, muttering something in Russian.  
  
  
 _Oh, boy,_  Jim thinks, getting to his knees, ignoring the throb of head and ankle. He crawls over to Chekov's side—or as close as he can get without kneeling in the puddle of blood the kid is sitting heedlessly in—and touches his shoulder. Chekov flinches, but doesn't move away.  
  
  
"Pavel, look at me," Jim says softly, and when Chekov looks up his dark blue eyes, which are wide and staring in bruised, shocked hollows, seem to have trouble focusing on Jim.  
  
  
Jim means to say something comforting to the kid—who is, for all his genius, still just that—something that’ll take away that haunted, far-away look. But what comes out is: “Where's Spock?”  
  
  
And with that name, memory descends upon Jim: V'Plenniak 5, the Fear, the running, and being caught. Then being caught up entirely when Spock's fingers touched his face . . . lost and delirious in feelings of newness and belonging. Of comfort and familiarity, even in the midst of strangeness. . . .  
  
  
Jim shakes his head even though it makes the room spin unpleasantly. Focuses his attention on Chekov, who's biting his lip and sniffling like a very small child. Tears cut clean trails down his pale, dirty face. "Where's Spock, Pavel?  
  
  
“The Commander is dead. And so are we all, Keptin.”  
  
  
And with that, he lets go of Yerkes's hand and lays down with his back to the corpse, seemingly unaware (or uncaring) that he's laid down in a pool of blood.  
  
  
Jim knows, distantly, that he should help the kid at least move to a dry spot, but he can't seem to move, himself. All he can focus on is Chekov's flat-toned words:  _the Commander is dead_.  
  
  
Unable to process this, Jim looks down at his scraped, grimy hands and remembers the meld . . . the feeling of completeness that’d been so vast, so endless, he thought he might die of it. The sense that here, at last, was a part of himself that he hadn't realized he was missing until that moment, and that once found, that part could never be separated from him again.  
  
  
Even now, he can still  _feel_  Spock, somewhere in the back of his mind, a cool-hot presence like a desert at night. Can feel phantom fingertips on his face as he’s swept up and away in a sea of emotions so complex, so powerful, he can’t catalogue them all, or even  _understand_  them all. Only . . . he does, somehow, know them and understand them, despite the fact that they're—mostly—not his own. Jim  _knows Spock_  better than Spock knows himself, and vice versa.  
  
  
And so, Spock  _can’t_  be dead if Jim they  _know_  each other so keenly. He just  _can’t_. They're two halves of the same person, and Jim's still alive, so Spock has to be, too.  
  
  
Yet . . . Spock isn’t here. Neither is half the crew that beamed down for Leave.  
  
  
They’re  _dead_ , and in the end there was nothing Jim could do to save them. To save  _him_.  
  
  
For the first time since Pike dared him to do better than his father, Jim feels like he's not even half the man his father was. Hell, he couldn't even keep sixty people safe. Couldn't keep the man he . . . cared about safe. . . .  
  
  
For a while, he simply gazes at Yerkes's ruined body. At Pavel Chekov, lying in her blood, his eyes wide and staring—unmoving but for minute facial twitches and the occasional shudder.  
  
  
Hanging his head, Jim Kirk weeps for the first time in his life.

  
Notes/Warnings: Set post ST:XI by three years. Spoilers for ST:XI and for Doom. Violence. Minor character death.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew gets more than they bargained for on Leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Set post ST:XI by three years. Spoilers for ST:XI and for Doom. Violence. Minor character death.

When Spock opens his eyes, he finds himself in rather incredible discomfort, unable to see properly, and unable to recall where he is: three facts that he finds more than mildly alarming.  
  
  
And there’s something . . . some _one . . . missing_ —  
  
  
“ _T’hyla_?” he groans, trying to sit up, heart racing as he searching the dimness in vain for the other half of himself. He’s instantly walloped by intense pain that closes itself around his head and rib-cage like paired vises. He closes his eyes and lets out another groan, and gentle hands push on his shoulders till he reluctantly lays down again.  
  
  
“Don’t try to sit up, Commander—you’ve been worked over pretty good,” a soft voice whispers in Standard. The  _wrong_  voice, and Spock blinks and blinks, till there’s a wrong face hanging over his own, blurry, and pale under its olive complexion, dark hair hanging lankly in darting brown eyes.  
  
  
“Lieutenant Tormalen.”  
  
  
The lieutenant nods, and when Spock tries to sit up again, this time Tormalen curses, but helps him, muttering all the while about hard-headed commanders. By the time Spock is upright, his head is spinning, his vision is significantly blurred, and his skull is pounding. Every bone in his body aches profusely, though none seem to be broken. But he surmises, from each pained inhalation, that his ribs may be bruised, or even cracked. The how and the why of it are still tauntingly just out of reach. . . .  
  
  
 _Even after they surface from the familiarwarmhome feel of the meld, Spock can’t tell where Jim ends and he begins. He has the sneaking suspicion that it doesn’t really matter anymore.  
  
  
He looks into Jim’s beyond-blue eyes and receives a wondering smile. Despite himself, Spock returns it, running his fingers down Jim’s stubbled cheek in a wondering, barely-there caress. The sudden contact acts as a catalyst, electrifying every cell, starting in his fingers, and not stopping till even Spock’s toes feel hyper-sensitive.  
  
  
“Wow, what was _that _all about?” Jim asks in an almost dreamy tone. His voice is husky and relaxed; it’s the voice of a man fresh out of a sound, restful sleep, and he leans into Spock’s touch unselfconsciously.  
  
  
Jim’s breathing hitches slightly when Spock’s fingers pause near his mouth.  
  
  
“I—” Spock doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, how to explain exactly what had happened between them. Only he’s fairly certain he doesn’t have to. That since Jim had felt what he’d felt, had shared the same experience, he knows exactly what the meld had initiated between them.  
  
  
He knows, because Spock knows.  
  
  
Indeed, Jim is blinking at him, brow furrowed as if he’s trying to figure something out. “Did we just have a mind meld?”  
  
  
Spock nods once, and Jim’s eyebrows quirk up under his messy hair.  
  
  
“I don’t recall asking for a mind meld, Mr. Spock.”  
  
  
Spock winces, but squares his shoulders, ready for whatever verbal (or even physical) censure Jim might deem appropriate for such a violation. “Yes, I . . . apologize. I do not know what came over—” but he doesn’t get to finish apologizing because Jim’s kissing him, slowly and thoroughly, exploring Spock’s mouth with the same zeal he exhibits while exploring the galaxy. When Spock responds hesitantly, half-certain this is some elaborate Human prank, Jim moans softly, pressing his body against Spock’s and . . . fascinating. This is evidently _not _a prank. Neither is Jim’s hands on his face, gentle and reverent. Neither is the way Jim goes pliant in Spock’s arms. . . .  
  
  
And when, exactly, had _that _happened?  
  
  
Spock pushes Jim against the alley wall, pins him in place and takes control of the kiss as primitive desire scalds him, washes away every defense he has against his stronger emotions, like a tsunami wiping away sand castles. His skin feels too hot, too tight, far too sensitive, and all he wants is to rip his clothing off and feel Jim skin-to-skin—  
  
  
“I think that can—_fuck _—be arranged, Commander,” Jim hisses as Spock’s kisses wend their way down his chin, to his throat, and follow the line of his pulse collar-ward. One hand clenches possessively on Jim’s hip, hard enough to bruise, and the other pushes up Jim’s shirt and without any hesitation now, slides into his trousers.  
  
  
“Or we could do th-this,” Jim stutters, his own hands clenching on Spock’s arms. He shudders and gasps when Spock’s hand closes around his cock and strokes roughly. Jim is hot and heavy in his hand, and Spock can’t shake the feeling that they’ve both been waiting for exactly this for a very long time.  
  
  
“Fuck, Spock, why the hell _did _we wait so long to do this?” Jim asks, laughing and gasping still. “Not that the wait wasn’t_ so _worth it . . . God, you’re a natural at this.”  
  
  
“I want you,” Spock says—admits, is closer to the truth. “I want you more than I have ever wanted anything.”  
  
  
Jim kisses him teasingly, his eyes dancing. “Well, don’t look now, Mr. Spock, but—you’ve got me.”  
  
  
Spock freezes as cold, unassailable logic makes itself known once more at that huskily whispered _Mr. Spock _. This is his_ captain _, his commanding officer—the man who's saved his life more times than he can currently count, and vice versa. This is the man who Spock doesn’t precisely consider a friend—not_ precisely _, despite the epic, lifelong friendship described by the Ambassador—but for whom he feels a powerful kinship and respect that go deeper than mere friendship. This is the man for whom he would would die if called, and for whom—_ with whom _he’s lived his life for the past three years.  
  
  
This is the man who, more often than not, drives Spock to excesses of emotion that leave him almost breathless, and scrambling for the hard-won meditation techniques he’s spent a lifetime trying to perfect. This is the man who’s made him want to laugh, scream, shout, rail, weep, and simply _be _, as long as it’s by his side.  
  
  
This man is the one and only James T. Kirk, and Spock . . . loves him fiercely, in a way that has as little to do with logic as love ever did. This unreasoning love is one of many feelings that Spock has carefully repressed for some time, though he’s taken care to hide its existence, even from himself.  
  
  
_I love Jim Kirk, _he realizes with something like joy, something like despair, and in greater measures than he’s ever experienced either._ With everything that I am, I love him, and will love him until I am no more. I know him better, now, than I know myself, and that love has only intensified. . . . _  
  
  
Spock straightens up, removing his hand from Jim’s trousers and leaning his forehead against Jim’s. He can’t seem to catch his breath, and his lungs feel as if they’re not functioning properly. As if aside from being unable to catch his breath, he can’t draw an adequate one, either. “This is . . . highly inappropriate, Captain.”  
  
  
“Very highly,” Jim agrees, warmth coloring his low voice. “But that’s not what’s bothering you, is it? When you want to, you can do highly inappropriate just as well as the rest of us. No, you’re upset about the meld, right?”  
  
  
Actually, nothing could be farther from the truth. And _that _is what upsets Spock. “Jim—”  
  
  
“Look, I don’t completely understand what happened in the meld—or what’s happening between us now,” Jim murmurs, kissing Spock’s temple and hugging him close for a moment. Then he cups Spock’s face in his hands and looks into his eyes, his own direct and unguarded. His thumbs brush Spock’s cheekbones tenderly. “But I don’t believe in shying away from the potentially awesome, just because I don’t understand it.”  
  
  
This, Spock knows, and has known for some time. This daring streak is at the core of who Jim is, as intertwined with his sense of self as his fearlessness, recklessness, and generosity.  
  
  
Spock shakes his head at Jim’s folly and his own. The instinct to follow wherever Jim Kirk leads is a mile-wide streak that is seemingly at the core of who _Spock _is. “It is your lack of understanding that worries me, Jim. I performed a unnecessary, highly dangerous act upon you without your consent. It could be equated to rape.”  
  
  
“As in ‘Spock raped my brain, oh noes’?” Jim snorts, his mouth curving in a wry smile. Spock is once more rocked by that tsunami-desire to taste that smile. “Okay, think brain-rape, if that appeases your Vulcan sensibilities, but bear in mind you don’t hear _me _screaming about brain-rape, do you? No, so don’t get so hung up on it that you pass up on something good.”  
  
  
“Just because you do not see the violation inherent in what I have done, does not mean said violation did not occur.”  
  
  
That infuriating twinkle lights up Jim’s eyes. “I say it does, and as the—ahem—violatee, I think it’s my view of this that matters more.”  
  
  
“I see.” Though he really doesn’t. He may know Jim completely enough to have predicted this response, but that doesn’t mean he understands it, or Jim. He may _never _understand Jim, and that’s part of what makes him so fascinating.  
  
  
Spock shakes his head again at Jim’s exasperatingly simplistic view of what happened. “Are you so certain, then, that anything resulting from a forced meld could possibly be of value?”  
  
  
“I think it could be very, _very _valuable.” Jim punctuates each_ very _with a quick kiss that ignites a fire in Spock’s being that he suspects is unquenchable. But that doesn’t stop him from trying. He pulls Jim against him once more and kisses him hard, as if to devour him. Jim’s arms wind around his neck and he practically melts in Spock’s arms, his fingers scritching leisurely through the hair at the nape of Spock’s neck.  
  
  
“Jim—” Spock gasps out, meaning to finish the thought with _once we start, I do not know if I will be able to stop. _But what comes out is: “_ Taluhk nash-veh k'dular. _”  
  
  
“You cherish me?” Jim’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, as Spock’s brow furrows.  
  
  
“You . . . speak Vulcan?”  
  
  
“Not a word. At least I didn’t before the meld. Now shut up and kiss me, _t’hyla _,” Jim grins, his eyes practically glowing with abandon and wanton desire. He starts to lean in again, but then his eyes dart over Spock’s shoulder and his kiss-swollen lips thin to a grim line. “Fuck, looks like we’ve got company, Sundance.”  
  
  
Still half caught up in the whirling emotions the meld had stirred up, Spock sways toward Jim, desperate to, if not overwhelmingly certain they should _consummate _a rather unorthodox union in a manner quite unbefitting officers of their respective lineages or ranks. “Who?”  
  
  
Just then there’s a shout behind them. Before Spock can even bring himself to care about anything other than Jim moving out of his arms, he and Jim are being slammed into the wall by several furry, solid bodies. Jim shouts in pain when he hits the wall, flailing against the body of a rather large V’Plenniak dyed orange and muddy-grey. They struggle, but Jim is clearly out-matched for strength, if not speed.  
  
  
Frozen in shock, pinned by two heavy, implacable V’Plenniak, the last thing Spock sees—before rage so great it tinges everything blood-green takes over—is Jim’s resigned, angry eyes before he’s knocked unconscious with a back-handed slap, and slung over a broad, furred shoulder.  
  
  
“_Ti'amah _!” With a roar and a heave, Spock throws the other two V’Plenniak off him, meaning to rend the one who’d harmed_ his t’hyla _limb from limb. But before he can take more than a few steps in Jim’s direction, the two who’d pinned him grab him by the arms. The one carrying Jim makes a snickering-hiss that may be laughter, and drops Jim like so much refuse, hissing again when Spock lunges futilely for him.  
  
  
The first blow catches Spock in the solar plexus, and drives the wind out of him. Spock instinctively lashes out with his feet, kicking Jim’s abuser in the abdomen and knocking him down.  
  
  
One of the V’Plenniak restraining Spock lands a kidney punch, and from there, the fight only goes down-hill. . . ._  
  
  
Blinking his way out of fruitless reverie, Spock squints through his headache and takes in his surroundings. He appears to be in a large, decrepit building, a factory or perhaps a warehouse, that’s lit only by filtered sunlight coming through windows set high in the walls. Above him is a system of catwalks patrolled by brightly-colored and richly-decorated V’Plenniak. Around Spock are his crewmates, at least thirty of them, in various states gibbering panic or silent catatonia. But they seem to have left a space of several yards around Spock and Tormalen, as if afraid to be too near them.  
  
  
Their state is similar to Jim’s, when Spock had caught up to him: advanced anxiety, and unreasoning fear.  
  
  
When Spock looks up to get a better glimpse of their captors for future identification—he’s almost completely positive that these symptoms affecting the entire crew on Leave are not coincidental; their captors have almost certainly had a hand in reducing the crew to such a state, all the better to control them—the room spins rather nauseatingly, and the thudding in his head grows exponentially worse when he tries to focus his eyes. He doesn’t even realize he’s listing backwards until Tormalen helps him up.  
  
  
“Ah, y’oughta lay back down, Commander,” he says nervously, looking up and around them. “These bastards don’t seem to like you, too much. There’s no sense getting ‘em riled up any more than they already are.”  
  
  
“I am in no shape to get anyone ‘riled up,’ as you say. I may have a concussion,” Spock informs Tormalen stiffly. The lieutenant bares his teeth in a grin without mirth.  
  
  
“Yeah, and you’re lucky to be alive, beat to Hell as you are.”  
  
  
Spock looks around them again, carefully, noting that though roughly half the crew that’d been on the Leave roster is there, the one face he’s looking for isn’t.  
  
  
“Jim,” Spock whispers, heart rate climbing precipitously as he suddenly remembers  _everything_ : the chase, the catch, the meld, and. . . .  
  
  
And the V’Plenniak that had set upon them.  
  
  
He remembers Jim being casually knocked unconscious, and himself trying to fight free of the arms that at turns restrained him and beat him. He still doesn’t remember losing consciousness, but he knows that if  _he_  had been beaten for putting up a fight, then Jim—if he’d regained consciousness—most probably was, as well. Beaten or worse.  
  
  
“—moved half of us from one old shambles of a building to another. The Captain got left behind.“ Tormalen shakes his head wearily. “Along with Riley, Winofsky, Chekov . . . bunch of others. But at least they were still alive to—“  
  
  
Spock finds himself grabbing at Tormalen’s grimy blue shirt, his heart beating in his ears so loud, the room at large must surely hear it. “You are certain the Captain was alive?”  
  
  
Startled, Tormalen nods quickly, trying unsuccessfully to free his shirt. His fingers on Spock’s are weak and ice-cold, (though Spock is fully aware that his injuries may have resulted in a higher than normal body temperature).  
  
  
“Yeah, he was, I mean—it’s been a few hours, best I can tell, but he was alive. Just unconscious. Those assholes knocked him clean out.” Tormalen glances up at the catwalks angrily. Gives their captors what Dr. McCoy would call the “one-finger salute.”  
  
  
“They harmed my—“  _t’hyla?_  Spock pauses, trying to quell a sudden, near-uncontrollable burst of pure rage. The struggle leaves him drained and nauseated, but himself. Tormalen, on the other hand, is staring at him as if he’s gone mad. “They harmed the Captain, but he was indeed alive when last you saw him?”  
  
  
Tormalen nods again, looking relieved when Spock finally lets go of his shirt. “Not that it matters. They’re gonna bury us all alive, anyway.”  
  
  
“Inhumation?” Spock’s eyebrow quirks up in question. Lieutenant Tormalen’s eyes are wide enough to see the whites around them. Though he hides it well, for a Human, he’s clearly in a state of near-panic. “From what evidence have you drawn such a conclusion, Lieutenant?”  
  
  
“From what evidence—?” Tormalen’s fear is momentarily eclipsed by annoyance. “Look, maybe I can’t understand a damned thing they’re saying, Commander, but I know—I  _know_  that’s what they’re gonna do to us.”  
  
  
Spock leans forward a bit, bracing himself on his hands. Closing his eyes doesn’t seem to help with the spinning of the room, but he does so, anyway, to provide himself with much needed mental space.  
  
  
Jim is—or was alive as of a few hours ago, by the lieutenant’s somewhat compromised reckoning. And compromised reckoning, or not, Spock would  _know_  if Jim were no longer alive. He would feel it in his very being if the other half of his  _katra_  were severed from him so very finally.  
  
  
 _He is alive and, Jim being Jim, will contrive to stay that way until a rescue can be organized,_ he tells himself, ignoring the small part of himself that rather dispassionately notes that Jim’s “luck” may have, at long last, run out.  
  
  
But whether it has or not, Spock has his duty to the crew, as their ranking officer. It’s something to take refuge in, and he does, pulling on the mantle of commander gratefully. “Lieutenant, the likelihood of inhumation is highly improbable. Our abductors went to all the trouble of capturing us. They would hardly do so for such an irrational purpose. More likely we were abducted as part of a ransom attempt.”  
  
  
“Damnitall, this isn’t the time for your  _logic_!” Tormalen exclaims, taking Spock’s arm. “It’s  _your_ fault we’re in this mess, anyway. Humans have no place out here, no business dying out in the cold black or on some planet with psychotic, tie-dyed Ewoks! Why couldn’t you Vulcans have just left us alone? We’d have never—“  
  
  
“Lieutenant.” Spock frees his arm and bends a cold, if bleary glance Tormalen’s way. “Control yourself. A panicked tirade will serve no purpose at this point, other than to get us further incapacitated, or possibly killed.”  
  
  
“So?” Tormalen laughs bitterly, his eyes closing so tight, Spock can see the veins in the lids. “We’re all dead, anyway, Commander They’re gonna plant us like geraniums.”  
  
  
Spock hangs his head again. Tries to keep himself in check, though he wants nothing more than to nerve-pinch the lieutenant into blessed silence. “Lieutenant Tormalen, I believe the crew has been dosed with a drug, or perhaps a virus, designed to manipulate us into believing our worst fears have—“  
  
  
Just then there’s a gabbling scream from outside, loud enough and mortally frightened enough that it stills the ceaseless patrolling of the guards, and the shaking, rocking, and moaning of the crew.  
  
  
When the screaming is suddenly cut off a few moments later, a tense silence falls that’s finally broken by one of the V’Plenniak barking orders at the others. As Spock watches, several of the guards leap over the railings of the catwalks to land among the crew, who—Tormalen included, Spock excluded—cringe. But the V’Plenniak ignore them and race for the large warehouse door. They haul it open, letting in late afternoon light that has the crew blinking and whining. Spock shuts his eyes against the light, feeling as if he might evacuate the contents of his stomach . . . or simply lose consciousness.  
  
  
“Last sunset we’ll ever see . . . oh, God,” Tormalen moans as the door slams shut with a hollow _boom_. When Spock once more has control of his body, he opens his eyes to find the lieutenant lying limply on his side, facing away from the door and Spock.  
  
  
“Lieutenant?” Spock touches Tormalen’s arm lightly and doesn’t get so much as a twitch in reply. When several attempts to get his attention fail, Spock finally rolls the lieutenant onto his back.  
  
  
Glazed eyes stare unblinkingly at the ceiling, and the Tormalen’s breathing is far too shallow, far too stuttered. He, too, has been incapacitated by whatever induced hysteria has taken the rest of the crew.  
  
  
 _Catatonia_ , Spock thinks, and wonders if, shortly, he’ll even be aware enough to apply the same theory to himself. His mind is . . . unclear, clouded with injury, rage, and fear for Jim. If he were to lose Jim so sooner after finding him . . . if he had to spend the rest of his very long life without the other half of himself . . . if Enterprise can’t rescue them in time. . . .  
  
  
Fear wells up in him so strong, it is nearly impossible to think rationally, yet think rationally he must.  
  
  
Think rationally he  _can’t_. Not quite. Because he’s under no delusion that the scream—V’Plenniak in nature, and the last hoarse call of a dying man—means a rescue effort has succeeded, and even now is battling to get inside the warehouse. More likely, their abductors fell into disagreement regarding some aspect of their plan, and attempted to resolve the issue with violence.  
  
  
If such animus can brew among the V’Plenniak conspirators, the likelihood that the entire crew on Leave will survive this abduction is slim to none. But at least Jim, as the highest ranking Starfleet officer on planet (and savior of the Federation), has a better chance of survival than most. His greater value to the abductors would ensure that—  
  
  
Outside, the screaming starts again.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
His head is throbbing, his feet ache, and Acting Captain Sulu is ready to tear his hair out.  
  
  
Three hours of scouring the Southern Sector and all they've got is big, fat nothing. The V’Plenniak constabulary that Sulu, Uhura, and the lead security detail are working with don’t speak a word of Standard, which makes communication and coordination awkward. So far, they’ve managed to find didley-squat and fuck-all but empty warehouses painted in various shades of peeling day-glo colors. Between that and the lurid red-gold sunset, Sulu’s eyes are beginning to throb as bad as his head.  
  
  
Whether it’s the responsibility of his temporary rank, or just being stared at like the outlandish alien he is, he feels as if he’s under constant surveillance. And no doubt he is, by whatever passes for a V’Plenniak intelligence agency. There’s definitely a sense that he and his party are being both watched and shadowed by someone just out of eyesight. It’s an itchy, uncomfortable feeling Sulu’s not used to. Whenever he tries to pinpoint where it’s coming from, the feeling disappears, as does whoever is causing it.  
  
  
It’s getting to be intolerable. He wants nothing more than to scream at whoever they are to get their sneaking, spying asses out in the open and have done with it. He wants to run around till he’s lost, calling the names of colleagues and friends until someone,  _anyone of them_ , answers him (but hopefully Pavel).  
  
  
He wants his crew back safe on Enterprise and this disastrous Leave to be over.  
  
  
“Don’t worry, Captain. We’ll find them,” Uhura murmurs when she catches him rubbing tired eyes. The smile she gives him is understanding and a little sad. “Or, knowing Kirk, maybe they’ll find us.”  
  
  
 _The sooner, the better_ , Sulu thinks, returning her smile and trying not to think of Pavel, frightened and alone, in the hands of kidnappers who may be hurting him in any number of ways. . . .  
  
  
“Are the V’Plenniak keeping anything back, do you think?” he asks her abruptly, and her brow furrows.  
  
  
“The constabulary or the ones we’ve questioned so far?”  
  
  
“Either. Both.”  
  
  
She sighs. “Well, the constabulary is being as helpful as they can, but the V’Plenniak have little experience with kidnapping. It’s almost unheard of to them. It’s considered a low act, even for the ones whose dealings with the right side of the law are few and far between. These cops are literally out of their element, and it shows. As for the populace—” Uhura sighs again. “They’re understandably wary and even afraid of running afoul of anyone who’d commit such a low act. They’re trying to be helpful, but they don’t want to get too involved in case they wind up missing, too.”  
  
  
Sulu shakes his head and watches yet another wildly-colored V’Plenniak civilian shrug and scurry away from the search team. The constable turns to Sulu and Uhura, and chitters something that doesn’t sound too hopeful.  
  
  
“Like the others, she remembers seeing several Humans running around as if frightened, but like the others, she doesn’t know where they ended up. She says the ones she saw were near the outskirts of the Old Warehouse District, running as if they were being chased. Sometimes they were, but not by anyone she recognized,” Uhura translates, her face creased with concentration and worry.  
  
  
“Beautiful,” Sulu mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Did she at least say in which direction they were being chased?”  
  
  
“Toward the heart of the Old Warehouse District,” the Constable says via Uhura. She’s a tallish woman—for a V’Plenniak—with vermillion-and-cream dyed fur. Her eyes are round, dark, and alert. “The most dangerous part of the city. A place for the lowest people to congregate.”  
  
  
“Well, that’s just perfect.” Sulu leans against the nearest wall and watches the V’Plenniak constabulary chitter and chatter among themselves and Uhura. Sulu heaves a sigh of his own and looks around ruefully. Nothing but brightly-colored buildings and very few brightly-colored people.  
  
  
Sulu’s squinting due south, into a bank of shadows in the mouth of an alley when he gets that _watched_ -feeling stronger than ever.  
  
  
As he peers into the shadows, he sees flash of bright green quickly disappear deeper into the alley.  
  
  
Glancing over his shoulder at Uhura, who’s still talking with the constable, Sulu gestures covertly at Johns and Francowiak. They nod slightly, and follow him to the alley. He means to have it out with whomever is doing the watching and following, whether it be V’Plenniak Intelligence, a curious gawker, or someone who might have even a scrap of information about the crew’s whereabouts. He means to get answers from  _someone_  today.  
  
  
Sulu draws his phaser, set to stun.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew gets more than they bargained for on Leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Set post-ST:XI by three years. Spoilers for ST:XI and for Doom. Violence. Minor character death.

At the mouth of the alley, Sulu goes in low, expecting—God only knows what—and finds himself face to face with . . . a miniature V’Plenniak.  
  
It literally only comes up to Sulu’s sternum.  
  
It’s chittering fearfully, squinting up at Sulu with anxious gold eyes which tick from Sulu’s face to his phaser. It holds up its hands in the universal sign of please-don’t-shoot-me.  
  
Well, it obviously recognizes a weapon when it sees one.  
  
Similarly, it obviously isn’t some kind of insurgent or secret agent responsible for the disappearance of a sizeable portion of the Enterprise crew. In fact, judging from its size and the otter-brown color of its un-dyed fur, it’s just a kid. An  _impoverished_  one, also judging from its complete lack of gold jewelry.  
  
Sulu glances back at the security detail that’d followed him to the mouth of the alley. Their weapons are still trained on the kid, but they look more confused than menacing.  
  
 _Well, at least I’m not the only one,_  Sulu thinks tiredly, turning back to the kid, who once more shrinks away, tears filling its huge, frightened eyes.  
  
“Hey—hey, it’s okay . . . I’m not gonna hurt ya—“ Sulu begins, glancing over his shoulder again, about to call Uhura. But that’s exactly when the V’Plenniak kid makes a strange keening sound.  
  
That, of course, snags everyone’s attention.  
  
Uhura’s the first to hurry over, looking concerned. But she shoulders right past the security detail and Sulu, to the V’Plenniak kid. Holding out her hands in a non-threatening manner, she says something in its language, like the comforting churr of a contented tribble.  
  
The kid’s dark-gold eyes tick to Sulu and the other Humans, then back to Uhura, who smiles, careful not to show her teeth. “What did the mean Captain do to frighten you so bad?”  
  
“ _Me_?” Sulu scoffs, and Uhura hushes him.  
  
“Poor little thing. You gave him the scare of his life.”  
  
“That poor little thing’s lucky he didn’t get a phaser-blast in the face! I thought he was some kinda—I don’t even know!” Sulu throws up his hands, and the V’Plenniak kid quails, tears welling up in its eyes once more.  
  
“Will you stop frightening him? He might know something,” Uhura chastises, as if Sulu might not have already thought of that. He sighs irritably.  
  
“Yes, I know he might know something,  _Lieutenant_ , and I’m trying to be as non-threatening as possible.”  
  
Uhura sniffs. “Well. It’s not working. Just put away your phaser. You’ve already made him nervous,” she murmurs, kneeling so she’s eye-to-eye with the kid, who takes a cautious step closer.  
  
“I made  _him_  nervous?” Sulu snorts, but holsters his phaser. “Ask him what he’s doing skulking around and following us.”  
  
Uhura nods and speaks to the kid in that same churring voice. The kid’s eyes tick to Sulu and the other Humans, then back to Uhura, one tear leaking out to dampen its fur. He says something hesitantly, his chitters barely above a whisper.  
  
When the kid finishes speaking, the V’Plenniak peacekeepers start murmuring among themselves and Uhura looks up at Sulu.  
  
“He says he was curious because we don’t act like the other aliens he’s seen today. We aren’t jumping at our own shadows and no one is chasing us.”  
  
Eyes narrowing, Sulu pins the kid with his gaze, and the kid flinches back again. “Ask him if he knows who was doing the chasing and where the other, uh, aliens were being chased  _to_.”  
  
Uhura nods again, and gets the kid’s attention by cooing at him almost tenderly. The kid looks at her and swallows.  
  
What follows is an exchange—calm and friendly on Uhura’s part, and hesitant and nervous on the kid’s. He keeps worrying at his lower lip with small, flat teeth and wringing his little paws. Uhura mouths to herself each and every bit of chitter-chatter the kid says.  
  
After a few minutes, she sighs. “Oh, you’re just a baby, aren’t you? Too young to be out here on your own. . . .”  
  
“What’d he say?” Sulu asks grimly. Uhura looks up at him again and takes a deep breath.  
  
“He says he’s been seeing aliens running around for most of the afternoon, looking as if they were being chased by demons. And they  _were_  being chased, but by V’Plenniak. According to him, the V’Plenniak doing the chasing have been hanging around the Old Warehouse District for days, intimidating people and chasing away the usual . . . low characters that can be found there. He says that since these new V’Plenniak canme along, there’s been much less crime, and many of the indigent, but honest citizens who make their homes here feel safer, though they fear their new neighbors enough to leave them well alone. Especially when those new neighbors go alien-hunting. He says that. . . .” Uhura lips twitch a little. “He says that he’s the only one brave enough to follow them around and keep an eye on them. He doesn’t like them, and thinks they’re up to low acts that are far worse than anything the gangs and grifters ever got up to.  
  
“He also says that he was following some of his new neighbors around today, and that they were carrying two aliens, both unconscious. That they went to a warehouse not too far from here . . . and before they closed the loading door, he could see dozens of aliens inside. But before he could get any closer, he says someone started shooting at him, and he ran.”  
  
Uhura turns to the V'Plenniak kid, who’s pointing back the way he came, his otter-brown fur standing on end as he squeaks out something else. Uhura listens for a minute, then goes ashen under her complexion. Behind Sulu, the V’Plenniak peacekeepers mutter and shuffle, drawing their weapons.  
  
“Captain, he’s saying that when they started shooting at him, he ran and ran back the way he came, and that he was so scared he wasn’t looking, and he tripped over something and fell.  
  
“What he tripped over was an arm. And there were other body parts scattered back along the route he followed. He recognized some of the pieces as belonging to some of his new neighbors.” Uhura falls silent for a few moments then she reaches out and puts her hand on the kid’s arm. He doesn’t flinch or pull away, but makes a high, anxious sound in his throat, glancing behind him. Then he starts chittering some more in a frightened half-whisper. Uhura immediately starts translating, without waiting for the kid to finish.  
  
“The body parts are not far from here. Neither is the warehouse where the aliens were being kept.” Uhura interrupts him, gesturing at her own face and body. The kid pauses, his eyes darting between her and Sulu then shakes his head, which causes Uhura to heave a relieved sigh.  
  
“None of the body parts are Human, Captain.”  
  
“And that, at least, is something.” Sulu smiles, tight and mirthless. “Ask him his name.”  
  
“It’s Radu,” she says immediately, and the kid looks between them both, nodding.  
  
“Rrrrradu,” he corrects, growling the R ostentatiously. He’s still wringing his hands, but he’s stopped biting his lip and crying.  
  
Sulu kneels, too, and looks the kid in the eye. “Radu, can you take us back to the warehouse where the aliens were?”  
  
“I can take you back the same way I came,” is the reply Uhura translates, then pauses. “I don’t want to be ripped to pieces, though.”  
  
Sulu’s smile turns almost wry. “Don’t worry, we won’t let anything happen to you. But you have to stay close to us and be quiet when we tell you to.”  
  
When Uhura finishes churring, Radu nods again and licks his lips.  
  
Sulu and Uhura stand, Uhura taking Radu’s hand in her own. The kid immediately latches onto her, placing his other hand on her arm just as any other child would with an adult it trusts.  
  
Glancing at his security team and the V’Plenniak peacekeepers, Sulu unholsters his phaser and nods.  
  
“Take us there, Radu,” he says, and the kid doesn’t even wait for the translation before he’s pointing south. The V’Plenniak peacekeepers take the lead, and Sulu and his security team bring up the rear, moving into the alley cautiously.  
  
Safe—hopefully—in their midst, Uhura and Radu, hand in hand, give directions that lead them all deeper into the District.  
  


*

  
  
The screams continue as Spock listens with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  
  
And they’re getting steadily closer, as if whoever—or whatever—it is that is seemingly working its way through the renegade V’Plenniak is purposely making its way toward the captured crewmembers.  
  
Spock doesn’t know whether to be hopeful or fearful, and his confused emotions are clouding his rational thought beyond uselessness. His mind rockets back and forth between worry for Jim and worry for himself, as well as his usual keen curiosity to  _know_  . . . know what is wreaking such havoc in what seems to be a clear effort to reach the crew.  
  
And does it mean them well, or ill. . . ?  
  
Sighing as he leans forward in preparation to stand, Spock will meet it—whatever  _it_  is—on his feet.  
  
And it’s just as he finally, after several nauseating, dizzying tries and jarring near-falls, gains his feet that the screams outside begin to taper and dwindle, until one final scream is cut off with blood-curdling finality.  
  
Looking around himself at the crew—only a few appear to be cogent, and even those few don’t seem to quite understand where they are or what’s going on—and then up at their remaining captors—who look entirely spooked and ready to bolt, something that gives Spock heart, though he doubts he’d be able to muster more than three or four crewmembers to aid him in anything approaching an uprising and escape—he surveys the room for anything that might be used as a distraction, should one become necessary.  
  
The space is barren of everything but crewmembers in various states of mental disarray.  
  
Another glance up at their frozen captors, who seem to be good for nothing at the moment but staring around at each other in obvious confusion and terror, shows that any attempt to wrest a weapon from such a nervous, trigger-happy lot would likely result in Spock’s death, whether accidental or on purpose.  
  
Suddenly there’s a loud, hollow boom on the metal door, like the knocking of a giant who’s demanding entrance.  
  
It’s immediately followed by another.  
  
And another.  
  
And by the fourth blow, the V’Plenniak captors have regained some of their sense of purpose, one of them barking hoarse orders that the others jump to obey. Some form ranks on the walkway overlooking the main floor while others, with Herculean leaps, jump to the main floor, landing almost silently among the captured crewmembers. Most of them barely notice, and the few that do let out frightened screams and whimpers.  
  
Suddenly—though not unexpectedly, Spock is grabbed from behind, one furry hand closing around his throat, the other jamming what’s most likely a pistol into his back. Half-angry, half-anxious growling words that Spock doesn’t understand are hissed just before Spock is shoved forward.  
  
Knowing that attempting to reason without a common language is worse than pointless, but possibly lethal, Spock walks forward, stepping carefully, unsteadily over Lieutenant Tormalen. Toward the door, and the determined, ominous  _booms_  that rock it in its frame. And if Spock’s concussion-blurred vision isn’t wrong, there’s a double convexity forming high up in the door.  
  
Sharpish, retractable nails bite into Spock’s neck and yet more angry, anxious hissing comes from his captor. The pistol is wedged more firmly into the small of Spock’s back. Spock takes that to mean  _stop_ , and does so, several feet from the door.  
  
After another minute of booming, the door begins to creak on hinges and that double convexity is deepening inward. From behind Spock come the pitiful sounds of the terrorized crewmembers and the fearful, nervous chitter-growls of the kidnappers. All is quiet chaos, but for that portentious  _boom-boom-boom_ —  
  
And just as suddenly as the booming had started, it stops.  
  
From out of the silence behind the door comes a low sound that builds so slowly, Spock doesn’t even realize it’s a growl, at first. Then the blows start up again, this time on the frame of the door, rattling hinges and making them scream, cracking the brick wall to the left side of the door, and bowing the actual frame—which also appears to be solid, though rusting metal—inward.  
  
Whatever is out there, Spock realizes with a spike of curiosity that’s almost as keen as his fear, wants to get in very badly.  
  
And from the high, creaking scream of metal and the rust-red showers of brick-dust from the wall, it’s about to get what it wants.  
  
Indeed, as if realizing this at the same moment, the V’Plenniak holding Spock backs them up a few feet. With not a moment to spare, it turns out, for with one more of those high, whining screams, the top left of the frame buckles, and hinges tear free of it.  
  
With another growl, whatever’s behind the door batters it with one final  _boom_ , and the bottom hinge gives. A second later the door teeters inward, then topples, hitting the dirty floor with a resounding  _clank_ , its top edge landing not ten inches away from Spock’s hastily snatched back form.  
  
A huge puff of dust and detritus is sent up that makes Spock and his captor cough—though the latter never lets the pistol waver—and from behind them both comes the sound of pistols being readied and more orders being barked.  
  
Between the dust and the back-lighting of the setting sun, Spock can barely make out a humanoid figure, tall and standing with head down and dripping, somewhat misshapen fists clenched at its sides (with a wince, Spock realizes the humanoid had battered the door down with nothing more than its fists and its rage).  
  
He can hear its heavy, but measured breathing even over the beating of his own heart.  
  
“Where is he?” It growls quietly, in an almost recognizable voice. Just then projectile weapons open fire from behind Spock and his captor.  
  
Spock gets shoved to the ground—his temple glancing agonizingly off an edge of the door—and the V’Plenniak that had been holding him also starts firing into the settling dust cloud.  
  
But the humanoid is gone. And so is Spock, consciousness failing him in a bright, hot flash of agony that’s soon consumed by cool, gentle darkness.  
  


*

  
  
They encounter the first of the body parts within minutes of tracing the kid’s route through the maze-like warren of the District. And sure enough, they’re V’Plenniak body parts.  
  
The multicolored, furry limbs are still relatively warm, and don’t look as if they’ve been cut off, but rather as if they’ve been ripped off. Grisly knobs of bone shine in the sunset, and the red of blood splatters seems all the more lurid for the bright, orange-red light.  
  
Sulu doesn’t know what to make of it. The V’Plenniak are almost as strong as Vulcans, which makes them vastly stronger than Humans. The only thing that could have quite literally rent more than one V’Plenniak limb from limb is another V’Plenniak.  
  
Or a Vulcan.  
  
And apparently Uhura’s had the same thought, because she glances back at Sulu and mouths _Spock?_  
  
Sulu shrugs slightly. It makes sense that Spock might have lost the customary cool he usually displays, when confronted by the would-be kidnappers. Hell, he’s lost it it before—more than once, and with less provocation. But would Spock incapacitate his accosters then take the time to tear them limb from limb?  
  
Sulu doesn’t think so.  
  
What Sulu thinks is that Spock’s first rational thought would be to contact the ship, then proceed—irrationally—on his own to rescue Kirk. However Spock was likely not acting rationally at all, and had simply gone haring off after Kirk.  
  
And yet Spock, even at his most emotionally compromised, has never killed. Only incapacitated.  
  
But the evidence points so strongly at Spock having gone off the deep end, that Sulu decides it’s best to proceed under the assumption that they’re dealing with an emotionally-unstable Vulcan. It’s what Spock, himself, were he thinking rational, would do. And Lord knows this day hasn’t been long on rational think—  
  
Just then, Radu starts chittering excitedly, though quietly.  
  
“We’re almost there, Captain. Radu says it’s two more intersections,” Uhura says, just as quietly.  
  
And indeed, there’ve been more and more V’Plenniak bodies and parts as they’ve gone on. The ground isn’t  _littered_  with them, but there are enough dead people that the peacekeepers are starting to get edgy and murmur amongst themselves, clicking the safeties off their weapons.  
  
By the time the party has passed one intersection cautiously—the streets are completely empty of people . . . eerily so—the sudden sound of projectile weapons fire reaches their ears.  
  
Everyone shares brief glances, then the peacekeepers are off and running toward the sound.  
  
“Stay here. I’ll comm you when it’s safe” Sulu tells Uhura, who nods, pulling Radu with her to the shadowed doorway of what looks like an abandoned tenement.   
  
Sulu looks at his team and nods toward the gun-fire.  
  
“Let’s go,” he says.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew gets more than they bargained for on Leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Set post-ST:XI by three years. Spoilers for ST:XI and for Doom. Violence. Minor character death.

By the time Sulu and his security detail make it to the warehouse from which the weapons fire seems to be coming, the sound has already lessened in intensity. As if the number of weapons being  _fired_  has lessened, as well.  
  
Carefully eyeing the place from across the intersection and around the corner of another warehouse that’s literally about to collapse in on itself, Sulu watches the V’Plenniak peacekeepers split into four groups of two, three of which disappear in two different directions.  
  
It’s clear enough what they’re doing: circling around the block to come at the building from three directions, leaving the direct approach to the V'Plenniak Constable, her lieutenant, and Sulu’s detail.  
  
The Constable crouches down and gestures for Sulu to do the same. Then she’s pointing at the warehouse, holding up her furry, four-fingered hand and spreading the fingers. She makes a wavy motion with her fingers, zig-zagging her hand. Then she points at the large entryway that appears to be open and closes her fist firmly. Her green-gold eyes meet Sulu’s, brows raised. Sulu nods and turns to his team.  
  
“Okay, guys, we’re spreading out, going in low, following zig-zag patterns to make ourselves less of a target. When we make it to the wall, we regroup at the entryway. Phasers set to stun. We don’t want any of our guys getting hurt and we also want the bastards that took them to be alive for questioning. Capische?”  
  
He eyes each of them until they nod their compliance. Then he turns back to the Constable.  
  
“After you,” he says, gesturing at the warehouse across the way. The Constable rolls her eyes—a gesture that seems to be common to all humanoids—and goes in low, her people following her silently.  
  
A moment later, Sulu and his team join them, eyes trained up at the other buildings for snipers.  
  
They cross the street at a fast clip, dodging and weaving as they do, they each, it’s obvious, expect some of that weapons fire to focus on them. But it doesn’t.  
  
It seems to be concentrated inside the warehouse, as do the sudden screams—V’Plenniak  _and_ Human—that go up.  
  
Sulu hits the wall a few yards from the door with a thud, half his team right next to him. To the other side of the door, the V’Plenniak and the rest of Sulu’s team are already inching along the wall, some high, some low. Emulating them, Sulu’s team creeps closer to the open entryway.  
  
As he reaches one side of the door frame—which seems to be warped out of true and coming apart from the brick that’s holding it by the hinges—the Constable reaches the other. Their eyes meet and she points at Sulu, dropping hand down low. Then she points at herself, raising her hand high.  
  
He nods, takes a breath, and goes in low at the same time she goes in high.  
  


*

  
  
As soon as the shooting starts—and since  _when_  do the  _Unseleighe Sidhe_  use fucking  _guns_ —Kevin Riley’s first instinct is to duck and cover.  
  
Not that there’s much in the way of cover: some pieces of machinery for loading that are partially dismantled and still too large to move . . . which means large enough to hide behind.  
  
He’s making for the nearest clump of rusting metal before the thought’s fully formed, sneaking past a couple of distracted  _Unseleighe Sidhe_ , who are every bit as tall and beautiful and terrible as his great-gran had described in her lilting Irish accent.  
  
Riley thankfully only has to pass the two of them—still firing their damn  _guns_  at the doorway, and it’s a waste of  _bullets_ , or whatever, since there’s nothing there, now—before he’s in the safe shadow of something that used to be a huge conveyor belt.  
  
Breathing heavily, he summons enough courage to peer out from behind the huge conveyor and the first thing his eye falls upon, closer to the door than to himself, is a fallen, familiar figure. . . .  
  
“Oh, Jaysus, not  _you_ ,” Riley moans, ducking back behind the conveyor, still panting and sweating. He crosses himself once, quickly, for the first time in years,and—ducking as low as possible—he darts out from the safety of the machinery, toward his erstwhile best friend.  
  
Around him, bullets fly, none of them in his direction. It’s clear that the  _Unseleighe_  are focusing on something they think is outside the huge doorway, though Riley is double-damned if  _he_  can see anything . . . not that he looks carefully or for long.  
  
After the brief eternity it takes to weave around other moaning, fallen comrades, the dark  _Sidhe_ , and the general crap that litters the floor, Riley is falling to his knees at Joe’s side, grabbing his arm and searching the blank, staring dark eyes even as he simultaneously searches for a pulse. . . .  
  
He finds one, and crosses himself again, thanking a God he hasn’t bothered with in more than twenty years, since his great-gran’s death. Squeezing Joe’s hand, he pats the other man’s face gently. “Joey? Ya in there, Joe?”  
  
For a few seconds, there’s no answer. Joe’s face is slack, his mouth open, his breathing erratic . . . then he blinks once, slowly, and his eyes roll painstakingly toward Riley. There’s no recognition in them for another few precious seconds, and around them screams of the frightened crew go up, as well as cries of fear from the angry  _Sidhe_.  
  
Riley ducks down closer to Joe and cups his face in one shaking hand. The other is still clenching Joe’s, willing him to be alright.  
  
“It’s me, Joe. It’s Kev,” he murmurs, and Joe blinks again, still painstaking and slow, but when his eyes open again, there’s weary confusion in them, and though that’s a damn sight better than blankness, it’s still not enough to get their asses out of harm’s way. “I know things are crazy, right now, but I’m gonna help you sit up, and when I do, ya have to stay low and crawl with me over there.”  
  
Riley points, but Joe’s eyes don’t follow. They remain locked on Riley’s face as if trying to figure something out. Then, startlingly, Joe almost smiles, his lips curving ever so slightly.  
  
“Kev?” he asks hoarsely, blinking again, this time with more purpose. “S’at you?”  
  
Riley laughs, a tear running down his face as he squeezes Joe’s hand again. “Damn right it is . . . y’okay, Joe?”  
  
Joe’s dark, confused eyes drift ceiling-ward for a few moments, then meet Riley’s again. They’re shining with tears and a species of dull, hopeless terror. “Kev?”  
  
Riley tries to smile, tears running down his face. He’s never seen  _Joe Tormalen_ , of all people, look terrified. Not even in the worst firefights or away missions. To see him look that way now makes Riley’s chest feel painfully constricted, and his eyes sting with more tears. “Yeah, buddy?”  
  
Joe swallows, then swallows again. “They’re gonna bury us alive, Kev.”  
  
Riley glances around them at the evil  _Sidhe_ —all of whom are now converging on the doorway, still firing intermittently—then back at Joe. “Well, I dunno about  _that_. Their kind don’t bury _anyone_ , alive or otherwise, they—“  _eat them_  “—er, just don’t. We’re not gonna be buried, guy. In fact, all this shootin’ and foofaraw probably means that the cavalry’s arrived.”  
  
Joe blinks, slow and sedated-like once more. “Cavalry?”  
  
“Yeah, buddy . . . the rest of the crew that wasn’t down here when everything went to shit.” Riley smiles confidently down at Joe like he isn’t talking out of his ass. Joe hesitantly smiles back, and looks around with something that’s almost interest, but not quite. He frowns.  
  
“Fuck, Kev,” he says absently, and: “We’re right in the middle of a firefight.”  
  
“No shit, pal.” Riley tries on a cavalier grin, and tries to believe that their rescue is at hand. Though what, short of the  _Seleighe Sidhe_ , could stand a chance with the  _Unseleighe Sidhe_  is beyond Riley’s normally vast imagination, at the moment.  _At the moment_ , the only thing his imagination’s taken up with is getting them both to safety. “Think you could make it to cover with me if I help ya?”  
  
Joe looks around again, licks his dry lips, and nods, trying to sit up. Riley helps him gently, carefully.  
  
Once he’s got Joe to his hands and knees—shakily, but still upright—Riley nudges him toward the broken-down conveyor and its dubious but welcome safety. Every split second it takes to get them there he expects a bullet in the back or the head. Or  _Joe_  to suddenly pitch forward in a spray of read and grey—  
  
But he doesn’t. And neither does Riley. They make it to the conveyor, leaving spent bullets and not-so-spent bullets in their wake. Riley shoves Joe into a corner made by the broken, rusted metal and Joe slumps into it with a heaved sigh and closes his eyes. Riley, wedging himself between Joe and the rest of the warehouse, rubs his own eyes, on the backs of which bullets are still flying and fireworks have started exploding.  
  
 _What a mess_.  
  
But one of them has to hold it together, and clearly it’s got to be Riley. So he opens his eyes and tries on another smile as he places a hand on Joe’s arm. Dark, somewhat less confused eyes meet his own.  
  
“Ya did good, buddy. Ya did good.”  
  
Joe returns the smile again, wondering and sad. “I didn’t do shit but try not to piss my pants.”  
  
“Believe me, that counts for a lot.”  
  
Joe’s small smile widens. “Always lookin’ on the bright side, even now.”  
  
“’Tis an Irishman’s way to see a rainbow in a mudheap.” Riley shrugs and ducks a little when a stray bullet pings off a large, corroded gear that’s far too close to his head. “Fuck!”  
  
Tossing aside notions of chivalry, he wedges himself into the corner with Joe, who makes room for him. For a few seconds they listen to the firefight, which—far from sounding like it’ll be stopping any time soon—has been refreshed, with the sounds of phaser-fire added to it.  
  
And not just  _any_  phaser-fire. Starfleet-issue phaser-fire. Set to  **Stun** , from the sound.  
  
 _Stun-setting won’t be enough to stop the_ Unseleighe _ones,_  Riley thinks desperately, wishing, not for the fisrt time, Starfleet wouldn’t pussy-out when it comes to doing a spot of killing.  _If that’s Kirk coming to our rescue, he’d better go big, or go home, because_ stun _ain’t gonna cut it, today._  
  
There’s prolonged a cry of pain coming from outside the warehouse. It’s humanoid, and it’s blood-curdling. A cheer goes up from one of the  _Unseleighe Sidhe_.  
  
Riley swears again, and leans his head back against the rusted machinery, closing his eyes once more.  _Out of the frying pan, and into the—_  
  
Another scream sounds, this one low and almost roar-like, and filled with rage. It doesn’t sound like the  _Sidhe_ , but it doesn’t sound  _humanoid_  either. . . .  
  
They’re  _so_  fucked.  
  
“Cavalry, huh?” Joe asks shakily, sardonically.  
  
“Yep.” Riley nods, agreeing, though less convincingly than he’d like. And Joe seems to pick up on this, because he sighs again.  
  
“Well, just in case we get ventilated or buried before they rescue us . . . there’s something I’ve been wantin’ to do for a long time, Kev, and here’s hopin’ you don’t slug me for it. . . .“  
  
“What are you talk—?” Then Riley’s opening his eyes as cold, grimy fingers brush his cheek and his face is turned. Joe’s eyes are  _this far_  away, his breath hot and hurried on Riley’s mouth.  
  
Then lips replace breath, dry, hesitant, and uncertain, and Joe’s shutting his eyes, so Riley—despite his bestartlement—shuts his, and lets himself be kissed softly. Joe moans and cups Riley’s face in his cool, slightly shaking hands. His lips are gentle and dry . . . dryer than even Riley’s chapped ones, and when he pulls away a little to lick them, Riley follows him.  
  
“Do that again,” he orders breathlessly, pressing his lips against Joe’s. He feels Joe smile.  
  
“For as long as I can.”  
  
Then they’re kissing again, arms sliding around each other, Joe’s tongue stroking slowly, repeatedly into Riley’s mouth.  
  
Around them, forgotten, bullets fly, pinging off of metal or burying themselves in the walls. Phaser-fire lights up the dim surroundings and heats up the air—or maybe that’s just Joe pressed against him—and a few of the  _Unseleighe Sidhe_  even fall with pained screams.  
  
That unholy roar sounds again from somewhere behind the warehouse, and Joe breaks the kiss, eyes wide with fear.  
  
“The fuck was  _that_?” He squeaks, that confusion finally completely gone from his gaze. The terror’s still there, however. Riley only notices this tangentially, as the rest of him is still focused on that  _kiss_.  
  
“Uh, that was your tongue in my mouth. . . .” Riley breathes dazedly, leaning in again, but Joe shakes his head and nods toward the back wall.  
  
“Be serious, Kev! There’s a fucking lion, or God knows what out there!” he hisses quietly, holding Riley protectively closer. “What the  _fuck_  is going  _on_?!”  
  
Riley laughs a bit hysterically, ironically, realizing that for all that he’s scared out of his mind, he can’t stop staring at Joe’s mouth.  
  
“I dunno.” He shakes his head slowly, feeling some of the fog clearing from it.  _Unseleighe Sidhe?_ He thinks wonderingly.  _That can’t be right. Not on_ this _planet—or on_ any _planet. That’s just a pack of old blarney great-gran used to tell me on days it was too rainy to go out and play. They’re not_ real!  
  
Though, if not the  _Sidhe_ , then what? What in the world is happening?  
  
“I dunno,” he says again, letting himself be folded closer, till he can feel Joe’s heartbeat against his own, and all he can see are Joe’s wide, terrified eyes. “But whatever it is, it sure sounds _pissed_.”  
  


*

  
  
The roars that had come from the direction of the warehouse with no regularity stop for half a minute . . . then continue, sounding slightly farther away than they had.  
  
Whatever it is, it’s  _on the move_ , and Radu means to follow it.  
  
“Radu—no!” The H’ooman holding him close screams.  
  
But Radu’s already free of her restraining arms, and running out of the relative safety of the doorway, toward the sounds of diminishing weapons fire.  
  
Toward the sound of the angry roars coming from nearly two blocks away, now.  
  
No, he  _doesn’t_  want to be ripped apart—not even a little. However he likes the idea of whatever that roaring  _thing_  is running around the District to wreak havoc even less. From the moment its roars had begun to sound more distant than they had, he’d known what he had to do. Seconds later, he was breaking away from the comforting mother-arms of the H’ooman woman, disregarding her thickly accented calls to come back. That it wasn’t safe.  
  
As he hurtles toward his fate, whatever it is, he feels a burst of resignation and determination. He’ll follow this thing to wherever it decides to den, then come back to report to the Constable and the H’oomans.  
  
They can handle it from there.  
  
But for  _now_  . . . Radu will do his duty. He won’t let  _it_  get away to rip more people apart. He _won’t_.  
  
So intent is he on making it to the warehouse that he doesn’t even realize the H’ooman woman is running after him. But despite her longer legs and slight frame, she’s no match for Radu’s speed (or his strength . . . the H’oomans are not very strong, Radu had discovered from the ease with which he’d broken free of the one holding him). He soon outstrips her, making it to the warehouse, where the Constable’s team and the H’ooman team are still firing into the doorway. The teams that had split off to circle the warehouse are nowhere to be seen—perhaps they’ve found other ways inside . . . or perhaps they’ve run afoul of the  _thing_  . . . either way, Radu doesn’t plan on sticking around to find out.  
  
He stops briefly, flattening himself against the rear wall, the way he’d seen the Constable and H’oomans do. Slightly winded, he tries to breathe evenly, and listens for the next roar.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Taking a last deep breath, he starts running again, away from the warehouse, in the direction from which he’d heard the last roar.  
  
Deeper into the District he goes, hoping that the  _thing_  hasn’t changed its direction, that he hasn’t lost it. . . .  
  
But, after a few minutes and no roaring, he fears that he has. But he’s starting to see signs of habitation—of the V’Plenniak that live on the very fringes of society for whatever reasons. He sees curtains hung in the broken-out windows of warehouses and factories, curtains that twitch and sway as their owners sneak peeks outside then quickly duck back away, into the almost-safety of their squats.  
  
He jogs past these, trying to see everywhere at once, not wanting to run into the  _thing_ , or anyone else, really. Though he does see a few people in passing—hurrying either deeper into the District on their own business, like him, or hurrying  _away,_  in other directions. None stop to talk, or to ask what’s going on, and Radu doesn’t stop to tell them. Instead, he keeps going, ears open for any other roars or growls or  _something_  to let him know he’s on the right trail.  
  
Suddenly, he hears a shout coming back from the way he'd run. Not far, only a few blocks. It’s a V’Plenniak shout—not alarmed or frightened, just angry and commanding.  
  
Stopping in his tracks, Radu stands stock still, listening for more shouts. This time, he’s not disappointed. The shouting goes on for some seconds, and he can make out the words  _attack_ and  _H'ooman_  and  _dead_.  
  
 _Uh-oh,_  he thinks fearfully, but creeps quickly back the way he’d just come, flattening himself against buildings and darting quickly across open spaces.  
  
He’s just about to cross the last intersection between himself and the building the shouts must be coming from—just stepping out from the shadow of a defunct factory when he’s suddenly grabbed from behind in an unbreakable hold. He starts to scream, but an iron hand—a  _furless_ hand—clamps down over his face, covering nose and mouth, and Radu can’t  _breathe_ —  
  
A low growl sounds in his ear and he goes cold all over as he realizes what has him.  
  
The  _thing._  
  
He struggles, too frightened to realize he’s wasting both energy and oxygen. He tries to butt with his head, jab with his elbows, and kick with his legs, but whoever or  _what_ ever’s got a hold of him evades him easily, merely holding him tighter and higher off the ground as if his weight is negligible.  
  
Soon, dark spots bloom across Radu’s vision like evil flowers, and his lungs are screaming in a way he cannot. Pins and needles prick his skin all over, and his limbs go slowly leaden.  
  
As darkness consumes his vision, his last thoughts are of the nice H’ooman lady . . . he hopes she’s alright. He hopes that somehow, some way, the Constable and the H’oomans catch this _thing_  that’s killed him and so many others.  
  
He hopes—


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew gets more than they bargained for on Leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Set post-ST:XI by three years. Spoilers for ST:XI and for Doom. Violence. Minor character death.

The space Sulu finds himself rushing into is some kind of abandoned warehouse.  
  
The place is riddled with ancient-looking machinery, only some of it is broken down into safer, component parts. But among the machinery and parts are the bodies—oh, God—of members of the Enterprise's crew-on-leave. Some are twitching and curled into fetal position, but others are still, eyes staring unseeingly up at the dusty space between their bodies and the high ceiling.  
  
And, among  _them_ , are the V'Plenniak responsible for the projectile weapons fire. They're converging on the area in front of the door in a semi-circle, not bothering to take evasive actions, even as Sulu, the Constable, and the others begin firing.  
  
Phaser set to stun, Sulu begins picking off targets while his people lay down cover-fire. As the first of the V'Plenniak crumple to the ground, their partners in crime finally get spooked and begin to dive behind equipment and machinery and crates, some even retreating toward the back of the warehouse as Sulu's team and the constabulary advance.  
  
But they don't give up. They peer out despite the phaser and projectile weapons fire and return fire themselves.  
  
There's a cry to Sulu's left as someone gets hit (it sounds like Schulz) and goes down. Sulu's team and the constabulary also dive for cover, Sulu drawing the V'Plenniak fire while Oslo and Kirsch drag a body between them toward what looks like an over-turned vat.  
  
Then Sulu's joining them, breathing heard and taking a glance at who he'd first assumed to be Schulz, but he's forced to look again, because Schulz is a security officer, not a science officer. And anyway, Schulz is crouching right next to Sulu, clutching her arm and swearing.  
  
No, the crewmember Oslo and Kirsch have between them is most definitely not Schulz.  
  
“Holy  _shit_ , it's the commander!” Sulu blurts out, and Oslo and Kirsch both shrug.  
  
“I nearly tripped over him going for cover,” Kirsch says.  
  
Oslo doesn't say anything. He's too busy leaning out from cover to fire. After a moment, Kirsch sighs, and does the same. Schulz, meanwhile, has ripped off a piece of her red (and getting redder) shirt and is trying to one-handedly tie a tourniquet around her right arm at the biceps.  
  
“Here, let me,” Sulu takes over the job and gets it done in seconds. Schulz thanks him, then nods at Spock, who's still and pasty between them. There's a sluggish trickle of green coming from near his left temple and he looks more dirty and disheveled than they've ever seen him. More vulnerable, for none of them have  _ever_  seen him unconscious.  
  
“He doesn't look too good,” Schulz states the obvious, then puts two fingers to Spock's neck. “His pulse is pretty even, though. He'll probably be fine if we get him to McCoy soon.”  
  
“Make that M'Benga. McCoy was one of the crew on leave,” Sulu says, leaning around the vat to take a few shots, himself.  
  
“Speaking of, there're only half as many or so bodies as there were crew on leave, Lieutenant,” Oslo rumbles in a voice like boulders rolling down a mountainside.  
  
“Shit.” Sulu arms sweat off his face and totes up the implications. It's possible that the other half of the crew are dead . . . but that's unlikely. What's more likely is that there's a second location where the rest of the crew are being held.  
  
 _Divide and conquer_.  
  
Which means once this firefight is over, they've got to do it all over again.  
  
But first, they have to  _find_  the second location, which means interrogation, which means time that they don't have spent waiting for at least one kidnapper to spill his guts, so to speak.  
  
“Looks like we've got a second location to find after this. Probably another fight, too. This is such a clusterfuck,” he sighs, and Schulz nods.  
  
“I heard  _that_ ,” she says, taking up her phaser again.  
  
Sulu only hopes that security crew he sent around the back of the building give them an edge that tips the balance of this firefight in their favor. And soon.  
  


*

  
  
Suddenly the unimaginably strong arms holding him let go, and Radu drops to the ground, gasping for breath and scambling back from the thing, which easily keeps pace with him. It's back is to the sunlight, so Radu can't make out its features, but he can tell from it's shape it's H'ooman . . . or H'ooman-ish. It's much taller than any V'Plenniak, mostly furless, and of a more elongated shape, anyway.  
  
“Stay back!” Radu coughs, waving a hand at it and hissing. But the thing keeps approaching, until Radu's back hits the wall of some building or other, and there's nowhere else to which he can scramble.  
  
The thing stand above him, arms akimbo, for almost a minute before finally kneeling down in front of Radu, and leaning in to—get a better look at him? Eat him? Kiss him good-night? Who knows?  
  
But this close, Radu can see its face better in the gaudy, late afternoon sunlight thrown off the wall. It's H'ooman, alright, with messy H'ooman head-fur, and wide, dark,  _angry_  H'ooman eyes. It's mouth is set in a wide, grim line.  
  
“You,” it says, pointing at Radu, who starts, surprised to hear it say anything at all, let alone in his own language. “Child . . . know . . . where is H'oomans?” it asks, gesturing at its own face and body with a hand that's swollen and bloody. Nonetheless, Radu's fear is eclipsed by confusion, then both take a back seat to cautious understanding.  
  
“The H'oomans are back there,” he says, pointing back the way they'd both come, and it growls, pounding one of its bloody hands on its thigh.  
  
“No. No,” it says with strange calm, though with a slight tinge of hopelessness, now. “Many mores H'oomans. V'Plenniaks—“ here, it pauses, obviously casting about for the word it wants, and equally obviously not finding it. “”V'Plenniaks . . . take!  _Take_  H'oomans!”The H'ooman points back the way they came, then makes a circling gesture around them and shrugs. “Where?”  
  
After a few moments of trying to figure out what it means, Radu thinks he has it. “The kidnappers took more H'oomans? And they're . . . keeping them someplace else? Someplace besides that warehouse? And you don't know where” He gestures back at the warehouse, then in the other three cardinal directions and shrugs, shaking his head.  
  
The H'ooman nods warily. “Where?” he asks again, in tones more desperate than scary.  
  
Radu shrugs and shakes his head again. “I don't know.”  
  
The H'ooman growls again, leaning in even closer, searching Radu's eyes intently. It even sniffs him a few times. Then it finally, surprisingly sighs, it's broad shoulders sinking into such a dejected slump,  _Radu_  is surprised to feel sorry for it.  
  
It hangs its head for a few moments, breathing hard, then stands up, clenching its swollen fists so tight, Radu can hear bones grind. It looks down at Radu, face in the shadows, once more.  
  
“No safe,” it says gruffly, and Radu snorts. “Go be home.”  
  
“No home to go be at.” Radu shrugs yet again, and slowly stands up, not wanting to spook the H'ooman with any sudden motion. “And it's not safe anywhere, alone.”  
  
The H'ooman frowns, and Radu wonders how much it'd understood. Then  _it_  shrugs and turns away, stalking off down the street, away from the scene of its last adventure.  
  
And that last adventure had seen some of Radu's own people dead.  
  
Maybe, just maybe, their deaths were justified, if they were kidnappers— _if_ —but what if the next V'Plenniak to die  _weren't_  kidnappers or other low people? What if, like Radu, they were out trying to find the cause of and stop all the deaths and dismemberments? What if they wound up on the wrong side of this H'ooman and unlike Radu, wound up dead?  
  
Radu shakes his head. He can't allow that to happen. He doesn't want anyone else to die, especially over a mistake. And that includes these other missing H'ooman's. If this angry, super-strong H'ooman is right about there being others of its kind lost in the maze that is the Southern District, then it's unlikely that the H'ooman would find them on his own . . . and without killing more people.  
  
Even now, it's possible the kidnappers had gotten word of what happened and were moving the H'oomans.  
  
Anyway, it's what  _Radu_  would do, were  _he_  such a low person as to kidnap –mostly—harmless aliens.  
  
Jumping to his feet, he scurries after the already distant H'ooman figure—it has a formidable stride, though considering its height and stilt-long legs, that's not surprising. When he catches up with it, it doesn't even look at him.  
  
“Go be elsewhere,” it says firmly. “Elsewhere  _safer_.”  
  
Radu, trying to match it's stride, but in the end, having to scurry anyway, just to keep up, snorts again. “I've seen what you can do, H'ooman. I don't think there's anywhere safer than by your side. Besides,” Radu adds, and scurries a little ahead of the H'ooman. “You need a guide.”  
  
“ _Guide_?” Now the H'ooman looks at him. “I no understand.”  
  
“Exactly. Which is why you need me.” Radu skips ahead a little, to the next intersection. He peers down all three directions, sniffing the air. The whole District, it seems, smells like H'oomans: too many chemicals, too much fabric, and very faintly, sun-warmed skin.  
  
But straight ahead, that warmed-skin scent is sharper, with a strange tang to it. Something high and almost . . . curdled.  
  
As if the H'oomans had been left in the sun for too long.  
  
Radu doesn't know what that means, but it must mean  _something_.  
  
“This way!” Radu calls to the following H'ooman, glancing back to see if the H'oman  _is_  still following. It is. “C'mon! C'mon! It smells like a whole pack—um, group of H'oomans came this way. And boy, do they  _stink_!” he adds, knowing the H'ooman won't understand enough to be offended.  
  
He takes off at a run, literally following his nose like an animal—and why not? Lucky enough this day's been as windless and humid as any summer day, and that scents, whatever they may be, tend to linger for some time.  
  
The H'ooman grumbles all the way, but follows.  
  


*

  
  
“That is  _definitely_  phaser fire,” Joe says, his arms tightening around Riley, who laughs, low and nervous. “The cavalry  _has_  arrived.”  
  
“Yeah, but if it's a standard security team, they're  _so_  outnumbered. They're  _fucked_.”  
  
“Maybe we could . . . help?”  
  
Riley leans back to look Joe in the eyes. The man's completely serious. “Help how?”  
  
“I dunno, maybe we could—“ Joe peers slowly, cautiously out from behind their cover, then ducks back in. “Shit, all I could see was phaser fire lighting up the place.”  
  
“Then maybe we'd better stay out of the way and let the cavalry do its job,” Riley says hopefully. Because stupid idea or not, he'd follow Joe anywhere. But he  _really_  doesn't want to follow Joe into  _that_.  
  
Joe sighs and leans his head back against rusting metal. “It just feels . . . weird not being proactive. We don't even have our comm-badges.”  
  
“Yeah, we don't . And we don't have phasers, so we'd just be getting in the way. We really should sit this one out.” Riley reaches up to trace the frown on Joe's handsome face, pleased when it turns into an almost-smile. “There'll be other firefights, trust me. We're in Starfleet.”  
  
“I do. Trust you, I mean. With my life.” Joe's almost smile becomes a real, if strained and exhausted one. “And if you say we should sit this one out . . . I guess we'll sit this one out. But next time . . . we go in, phasers blazing.”  
  
Riley smiles. “As per usual.”  
  
Joe leans in and kisses him, quick and light. Then less quickly and lightly. . . .  
  
And that's how the security team finds them, minutes later, after the firefight has come to a virual stand-still.  
  
“Riley! Tormalen!” A harsh whisper sounds direcly across from them and they start apart. Crouched behind some rickety, holey boxes is the standard-sized security team of Macomber, Beckwith, Stinson, and Hong.  
  
How they got through the firefight unscathed is beyond Riley. He's about to ask, when Macomber gestures at the back of the warehouse. “We made our own way in,” she whispers, then unholsters one of her phasers and tosses it carefully at them. Riley catches it. It's set to _stun_. Joe takes it, just in time for Riley to catch a second Phaser, tossed by Hong and also set to _stun_.  
  
“Think you two can tear yourselves away from each other long enough to back us up?” Macomber's grin is hard and mostly humorless.  
  
“Kev?” Joe's looking at Riley as if for approval, and Riley. . . .  
  
Riley glances at the phaser, then back at Joe. More specifically at Joe's kiss-swollen lips. “To be continued?”  
  
Joe smiles, then steals a final kiss. “Bet your ass.”  
  
“Then what're we waitin' for?” Riley clears his throat, blushing at the knowing looks garnered from the security team. “Let's go get those  _unseleighe_  bastards!”  
  
Macomber looks confused for a moment, then shrugs and gestures for her team to spread out and move forward.  
  
Sharing one last glance, Riley crawls out from behind their cover, Joe following close behind.  
  


*

  
  
They've been at a stand-still for over five minutes, during which there's only been sporadic fire.  
  
Sulu's ready to tear out his own hair when the sound of phaser fire resumes—from behind enemy lines.  
  
Smiling, gestures to his team to get ready for—well, anything—and counts to three before leaning out to get the lay of the land.  
  
When no one takes a shot at him—when, indeed, the projectile weapons fire seems to be fired at a target that's very much not Sulu's team or the constabulary—Sulu creeps out from cover and zigzags his way forward, toward other clumps of machinery and crates, and around the sometimes twitching, sometimes catatonic bodies of crewmembers.  
  
Behind him, the rest of the team moves silently and spread out. Across the warehouse, the constabulary is doing the same. So far, the projectile weapons fire is still focused toward the back of the warehouse.  
  
 _I love it when a plan comes together,_  Sulu thinks grimly as he and his team reach the enemy's first line of defense and the real skirmish begins.  
  


*

  
  
The soured-H'ooman scent becomes thick enough to cut with a knife, by the time Radu realizes he's in a part of the District that even  _he_  tries to avoid. In the middle of the day, too, let alone at sunset.  
  
“What?” The H'ooman following him asks when Radu stops. Radu gestures around them. “Not safe,” he says simply. The H'ooman frowns, then sighs. He looks hard at Radu and points to the ground at Radu's feet.  
  
“Stay,” he commands, and Radu huffs, crossing his arms. But the H'ooman's already striding off toward one of the many abandoned and condemned buildings that litter the District. He kicks in the door—which proably wasn't locked, anyway—and disappears inside. Radu notes the way the entire building shakes and groans, and  _stays_ , as commanded.  
  
About a minute later, the H'ooman comes back out with what looks like a . . . crowbar.  
  
He presents this item (ancient and rusty) to Radu without ceremony. Radu takes it questioningly. The H'ooman rolls its angry, dark eyes and mimes swinging and hacking at something or someone several times.  
  
“ _Oh_!” Radu understands suddenly. He clutches the crowbar a little tighter, feeling rust flake under his palms. But underneath that rust, at least, is sturdy iron.  
  
He nods at the H'ooman and swings the crowbar a few times, himself, and the H'ooman makes a hard, amused grimace that reveals square, white teeth.  
  
 _It's smiling_ , Radu realizes. So he returns the grimace, revealing his own less-square, less-white teeth. It snorts, and sticks out an arm as if to say,  _after you_.  
  
Glancing around, then turning South, Radu clutches at the crowbar and, squaring his shoulders, takes a deep whiff of the air . . . then leads them silently into the heart of the Southern District.

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback or concrit would be great! Dunno where to go next with this.
> 
> And please to following me on [The Tumbles](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)?


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